


The Tragedy of Men

by smaragdbird



Category: Robin Hood (BBC)
Genre: Crusades, M/M, Pre-Canon, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-10
Updated: 2011-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-14 15:23:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smaragdbird/pseuds/smaragdbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Much and Robin have been part of the Siege of Accre for a year now while battles, illnesses and difficulties with supplies take their toll on the men.<br/>In the middle of this Much and Robin are captured by the enemy to be sold into slavery. Robin as a noble can buy his own freedom but Much remains captive unless Robin finds a way to free him. Robin does, of course, save him in a very dangerous and risky coup and they return to see the fall of Accre.<br/>Still, tension runs high between Richard and Phillip of France while Richard contemplates marrying his sister to Saladin's brother.<br/>In the meanwhile Much befriends the Knight Templar Thomas who is no less reckless than Robin but still confuses Much a lot more than his master ever did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act one: I’ll believe in anything

**Author's Note:**

> Okay first a big, big thank you to both my beta-reader[Thymelady](http://thymelady.livejournal.com/) and my artist[Neaptidea](http://neaptidea.livejournal.com/). They have both done a more than incredible job especially in that short time. You are awesome guys, both of you :)  
> Second, I took a historical liberties with this fic: Richard and Philip didn’t arrive in Acre until summer 1191 but here I made them come to Acre in 1189 for dramatic purposes. Also I interpreted the historical characters in this story as it fit my purposes which I only say here in case one of you has seen Kingdom of Heaven and wonders why Guy de Lusignan is such a nice guy (although according to my textbooks and Wikipedia he wasn’t so bad ;)  
> Third, all Arabic in this fic comes from the phrase pages in an old travel guide. Feel open to point out any mistakes I made
> 
>  
> 
> Written for [RH BigBang](http://community.livejournal.com/rhbigbang)
> 
> [Artwork](http://community.livejournal.com/rhbigbang/18555.html), by [Neaptidea](http://neaptidea.livejournal.com/)

Even in October Outremer was hotter than it had any right to be in Much’s opinion. The sun had long since set behind the horizon but the meeting of the King’s Guard dragged on and on. They had still lit fires, of course and he sat around one with a handful of other non-noble soldier’s from the King’s Guard, most of them squires or manservants like him.

“What’s taking them so long?” Much huffed for the sixth time this evening and Saer shot him a dark look:

“It won’t go faster when you complain about it every hour.” He said with his thick, German accent. He was one of the few survivors of Barbarossa’s army that had made it to the Holy Land and he had joined the Hospitallers here but thanks to the disarray in the Holy Land, he had ended up in the Siege of Acre with the rest of them. Much had sometimes problems understanding him, partly because his own French wasn’t perfect and partly because neither was Saer’s.

“I don’t complain, I’m wondering.,“ Much protested. Adhémar rolled his eyes.

“Call it what you want but stop it.”

“There was a messenger from Italy,” Jehan grinned excitedly: “My master told me that he came with a merchant’s ship but apparently the cities of Italy have finally decided to send their fleet to help us.”

“It is winter,” Jocelin pointed out: “The fleet won’t be able to cross the sea until March or April.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jehan waved Jocelin’s words away: “At least they’re coming. And with help from the outside we will have Acre back in our hands soon enough.”

“We said the same when you arrived,” Aimery sounded amused at their expense. He was a soldier of Guy de Lusignan’s army that had first laid siege to Acre before any of the other Crusaders had arrived: “And look what difference you’ve made.”

“You wouldn’t be here anymore without us.” Much stated as if he knew that for certain. For once Adhémar agreed with him:

“You can’t find their arses without our help, arrogant bunch of fools they are.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Jocelin intervened: “They held the siege for two months and they have already been more successful than both the Hospitallers and the Templars.”

Before anyone else could express their opinion the King Richard’s tent’s flap was moved aside and James of Mersey stormed out, a dark look on his face. Much knew that expression only too well. Usually it meant that the King had listened to Robin instead of James’ opinion.

“Jocelin!” he snapped, but Jocelin had risen from his seat as soon as the tent had opened and followed his master without another word to his fellow servants.

LeGrand was the next one who stepped outside but he waited, giving Adhémar a sign that he should remain where he was. Adhémar nodded and took his seat close to the fire again.

As soon as Robin left the tent, LeGrand wrapped his arm around his shoulders and laughed.

“Well that calls for a celebration, doesn’t it?”

“I’m still looking forward to the day that doesn’t warrant some kind of celebration,” Adhémar murmured dryly. Jehan grinned but Much gasped and send him an surprised look. He felt always scandalized that Adhémar talked about his master like this. On the other hand Roger of Stoke seemed to have a similar opinion:

“If you keep this up I will never see the day when you fight sober,” he said, but his tone was a lot less dry than Adhémar’s had been.

“You, my friend,” LeGrand reached out and wrapped his other arm around Roger’s shoulder, “need to relax. Hey, Robin can your servant sing?”

Robin’s eyes found Much’s over the fire and he grinned:

“No, he can’t.”

“No protest from my side, here.” Adhémar’s quiet sarcasm made Much’s ears burn.

“Shut up,” Much said but without much force. So what if he couldn’t sing very well, he still liked singing and he still knew more songs than all of them combined.  
“But Roger’s right. I think we should prepare for the foray tomorrow,” Robin finished and slipped out underneath LeGrand’s arm.

“Don’t worry my friend.” Robin smiled, “We can celebrate tomorrow as well.” He gave Much a look and Much followed him back to their tent with a last nod to Jehan and Adhémar.

Inside, Robin had already poured water into a bowl and washed his face from the sand and the grime of the Holy Land. When Much moved to unfasten Robin’s surcoat when Robin said:

“He’s such a fool.”

“Who, Master?” Much asked while he pulled the garment carefully over Robin’s head.

“James of Mersey.” Robin shook his head: “He wants us to sit here and starve until the fleet arrives.”

“We’re lucky the King listens to you more than to him, then, master.” Much replied cheerfully and began to work on the fastenings on Robin’s chainmail. He was quite thankful that Robin dropped into English when they were alone.

Robin chuckled: “Hopefully.” But Much could see the pride and confidence in his face. It was reassuring that at least Robin seemed to know what he was doing. Much wasn’t so sure about some of the other knights even if he would never admit it out loud unlike that Adhémar.

“Are you hungry, Master?” Much asked while putting the chainmail away but Robin shook his head:

“Just some wine.” Much poured him a coup but thinned the strong wine with water because he knew that Robin didn’t like to be drunk.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to visit that one armourer tomorrow?” Robin asked. That was something else Much liked about him; he always remembered what Much had said, even if it had only been passing conversation.

“Yes, master.”

“Where does he live?”

“In a village a bit south from here.” Much answered truthfully. Sure, it was a Saracen village, but the people there had lived in the Kingdom of Jerusalem for quite a long time and were friendly to him. They had even taught him their language, which Much sometimes found easier to understand than the strange accent of King Phillip’s soldiers.

“Good.” Robin looked thoughtful.

“Why, Master?”

“There will be a foray into the villages north from here but if you go south you should be fine.”

“Is the King’s Guard not taking part in the battle?” Much asked. Robin gave him an amused smile:

“It’s not a battle, Much, it’s an attack to secure our supplies.”

“But the trade with the villages...” Much began and trailed off. Robin shrugged.

“The King thinks it's bad for soldiers to sit around waiting for too long.” Robin finished his wine with a long gulp and offered Much a friendly: “Good night,” before he crossed the tent to lie down on the heap of skins and cloths that was his sleeping place.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

The next morning was bright, but every morning in the Holy Land so far had been bright. The King’s Guard had been called to another meeting concerning the Italian cities but Robin had told Much to go and see the blacksmith nonetheless.

When he climbed up the hills south of the camp he could see some troops readying themselves for today’s skirmish but he was too far away to see if the banner showed King Richard’s or King Phillip’s colours. Hospitallers and Templars usually refrained from attacking the villages that were part of the kingdom of Jerusalem.

The blacksmith Much had talked to about his shield had been recommended by Harun al Mahdi, a local steward and tradesman. Luckily Robin was part of the King’s Guard, and with his share of the treasures of Sicily and Cyprus, Much could trade enough that they didn’t have to rely on rations and raids.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

“As-salāmu ʿalaikum,” The blacksmith, whose name Much was sure was Hamid, greeted him when he approached his workshop.

“Wa-ʿalaikum as-salāmu,” Much replied, “Are you finished with my shield?”

Hamid wiggled his head and said something very fast in Arabic, which was made worse by the fact that he was missing his front teeth and lisped a lot so that Much only understood “too damaged”.

“But you said you could repair it,” he protested.

“Better one,” Hamid answered in French and waved him inside. Much liked the houses here, they were much better than the tents they stayed in since their thick walls they kept out the sun and the heat, but it would probably not be a good idea to build houses in front of a castle they were besieging.

“Here.” He pressed a small, round thing into Much’s hands and gestured for him to hold it into the small stream of light coming from an opening in the wall.

Much stared.

“That’s a shield?” He asked a bit astounded because said shield was maybe a quarter of the size of his old one. Small and round where his old one had been kite shaped and big enough to cover the most of his body.

The new shield was also very, very colourful. Everyone would see him coming from a mile away.

“I... that’s... I can’t ...” Much sputtered, searching for the right words. Hamid looked at him curiously. Much took a deep breath and started again:

“Look, this is not a shield. I couldn’t possibly fight with this.”

“No, it’s good shield,” Hamid argued, “Good for your sword.” He gestured to Much’s short sword: “Even Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn Yūsuf ibn Ayyūb use them.”

“Yes, that’s why we’re defeating him.” Much replied.

“Ah but I’ve heard that you need three of your Kings to conquer one of ours,” Harun grinned friendly, the tanned skin around his dark eyes crinkling with thousands of tiny laugh lines. In his hands was the line of wooden beads that he usually played with and that reminded Much of a rosary. He laughed loudly when he saw Much’s confused face.

“Don’t worry my friend. If two enemies are equally strong then the more determined one will win.”

“Our King is very determined.” Much replied confidently.

“So is ours,” Harun answered and walked into the workshop, greeting Hamid before he took a look at the shield they were arguing about.

“This is very good work,” he said, taking the shield from Much’s hands and added in Arabic, “You should be proud of this Hamid.”

“But I can’t use it.” Much repeated.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s too small, and too bright.”

“Your big shields aren’t conspicuous either,” Harun said with humour in his voice: “And I’ve seen some of your soldiers using round shields as well.” He laid a hand on Much’s shoulder. “Come, my friend, my son will show you how to use your shield.”

Much put up a few token protests before he paid for the shield and left the workshop with Harun.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

Tahir, Harun’s son, was already waiting for them, sitting in the shade of the house. He greeted his father respectfully and reported something about the stock that Much only understood the half of because it concerned many fruits and crops and animals that he had never heard of.

Tahir was a healthy young man and Much had asked him once why he wasn’t serving in Saladin’s army to which Tahir had replied that things worked differently in this country and that the best way to honour his father was to take over his trade, especially since he was his only son.

“I see your king still hasn’t taken Acre back,” Tahir teased him when he lead him out on the court. “Your home has to be a dreadful place since he wants to stay here so badly or why else would he lay siege to a castle that hasn’t been conquered before?”

“England is very beautiful.” Much protested but Tahir laughed to show him that he was only joking.

“Home always is, isn’t it?” He pulled off his shirt. Much followed his example and pulled off his own. As soon as he did, he could hear the high, clear laughter and giggles from the women inside the house that he couldn’t see.

“Go, you silly flock of geese!” Tahir called to one of the windows in the first story of the house. Promptly they could hear more laughter.

“Forgive my sisters,” Tahir said, “They are curious and CHILDISH AS HATCHLINGS!” Still more giggling. Much laughed lightly embarrassed: “I didn’t mean to – ;“ but Tahir stopped him:

“Don’t worry about it. Here.” He gave Much the shield. It was not only shaped differently and much more colourful than English shields, but also much lighter.

“Here.” Tahir threw him a stick that had about the length of Much’s sword.

“It’s a good thing you’re using a short sword, not a long one like your fellow Normans.”

“Why?” Much asked.

Tahir grinned: “Come on, attack me. Then you’ll see.”

Much pretty much fell in love with his new shield on that day. He had always had problems using his shorter sword with the regular English shield, but he liked his sword. It was much easier to handle than the longer swords that the knights used. Especially for someone like him, who hadn’t had proper training in sword fighting like Robin had.

He could still cower behind his new shield like he had done with the old one, but this shield would give the advantage of freer movement in close quarter fighting.

Harun called an end to their training session when the sun had nearly reached its zenith and led them under the canopy of his house where his wife waited for them.

“My wife, Khalida al-Khayyat,” Harun introduced her.

Much, who didn’t know how to greet a Saracen woman, lowered his head and more or less mumbled: “As-salāmu ʿalaikum.” Khalida’s laugher was deeper and friendlier than the high, clear laughter of Tahir’s sisters Much had hear earlier. “Wa-ʿalaikum as-salāmu,” she said.

“Mariam! Rayhanna!” she called and only moments later her daughters appeared in the doorway carrying trays with fruits and deep yellow liquid that Much couldn’t identify. Harun offered a small bowl of it to Much. “We call it sharbat. It’s made of ice and orange juice.” He smiled encouragingly and Much tried it.

“That’s delicious!” he exclaimed. Harun smiled kindly and clicked his wooden beads: “Please, eat. I know that you and Tahir must be hungry after such exertions.”

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

The sun was soon to set over the Western horizon when Tahir and Much went back to their training. Tahir’s sisters were standing next to the house and whispering fiercely to each other while throwing looks in their direction. Much wondered if they disapproved of him being here.

Suddenly one of them walked up to him, encouraged by her sister who had shouted something Much hadn’t been able to understand. Quick as a cat she pulled on a strand of his hair and ran back to her sister again.

Much stared after her confused.

“I have to apologise for my daughter,” Harun said while sending a dark look in the girl’s direction.

“Did I do something wrong?” Much asked concerned.

“It’s not your fault.” He made a gesture as if he didn’t know how to explain. “It’s... your hair. That colour is very unusual and I believe my daughter wanted to see if the colour would rub off if she touched it.”

“No, it’s... I mean it’s just hair,” Much stuttered.”

“Very unusual hair, though,” Tahir added.

“Not in England,” Much told him. No one had singled him out because of his hair before.

“Are you sure it won’t wash off in our water?” Tahir grinned.

“Very sure.” Much grinned and followed him down to the river. About half a mile downstream he could see children playing in the water and heard their splashing and screaming. It wasn’t so different from back home.

“Hey, Much!” When Much turned to Tahir, he was met with a giant splash to the face. Tahir laughed.

“You!” Much tackled him into the shallow water. They wrestled between the water and the bank’s mud, laughing like the children downstream.

Suddenly the laughter turned into screams, screams of terror and fear.

Much and Tahir broke apart and saw that the river was full of corpses and the water was red.

Much had seen corpses and he had killed but this... this was something else completely. These were not only men but also women and children, some of them too young to even be able to walk.

“That is not good,” Tahir said quietly when Much looked away.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

“Nice arm decoration.” Jehan commented when Much returned to the tents that belonged to the King’s Guard.

“No, Jehan,“ Adhémar joined in. “I believe that’s supposed to be a shield.” Jehan tilted his head and stared at Much’s shield as if he was reconsidering his opinion.

“I think you’re right,” he finally said with an obnoxious smirk at Much. “I think I’ve seen someone else with such a shield, too.”

“Really?” Adhémar played along, sniggering. “Who else would run around with a shield that looks like it has fallen into a dyer’s vat?”

“Saracen’s of course.” Jehan turned to Much with a wide grin. “You’ve not turned Saracen did you?”

“You’re not funny.” Much shot him a dark look.

“They will have to recruit after the blow their numbers took today.” Adhémar’s voice was as dry as the sand around them. “Whole villages don’t fall from the sky.”

“You will die from the first arrow send in your direction. You’ll be useless.” Jehan added. Much, whose nerves were raw after what he had seen at the riverside, more or less snapped his reply at Jehan and Adhémar.

“I can show you how useless I’ll be.”

“Sure, whatever you say,” Jehan grinned, clearly not taking Much for earnest.

Much simply drew his sword.

“Oh, fine.” Jehan drew his own sword and grabbed his shield before he attacked Much viciously, aiming his blow at Much’s unprotected head. Much blocked it with his own sword and threw himself with his shield arm against Jehan’s shield before he used the energy to swirl around Jehan and kick him in the back of his knee, sending him to the ground.

Jehan struggled to get up but his shield was stuck in the sand.

“That’s my use,” Much said coolly while holding the tip of his sword against Jehan’s bare neck.

Something moved behind him and Robin bellowed “Much!” at the same moment King Richard demanded to know what was going on.

Much felt his cheeks heat up with embarrassment. He dropped his sword and looked at his feet, shifting away from Robin’s eyes on him.

“You, speak.” Even without looking Much recognised LeGrand’s loud voice.

“Just a little training fight.” Adhémar answered in a devil-may-care voice.

“A little fight?” King Richard raised his eyebrows. “It looked like one of you was trying to kill the other.” And he added, to Robin. “Get a grip on your man or I will let James handle him.”

“Of course, my King.” Robin said immediately but his eyes were on Much and they were filled with disappointment.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

“What was the matter with you?” Robin demanded to know as soon as they were alone in their tent.

“It was training, just as Adhémar said,” Much replied. What else could he say? That the sight of dead Saracens had upset him?

“Much, “Robin said softer. “You can talk to me, whatever it is.”

Much turned to him with his most faking and brightest smile. “It’s nothing, Master, I assure you and it won’t happen again. I didn’t mean to embarrass you in the eyes of the King.”

Robin gave him a thoughtful look but let it go. Instead he picked up Much’s new shield carefully and examined it.

“That’s different,” he said when he tried it on. He looked at Much. “You can fight with this?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Won’t be much use against a rain of arrows.” Robin said thoughtfully. “Not that we’ve seen much of those.” He took the shield off and gave it back to Much. “Can you make dinner? I’m hungry.”

“Of course, master.”

While Much bustled to prepare dinner, Robin reclined in a chair and cleaned his bow. Much had offered more than once to do it for him, he had after all his own bow and knew how to take care of it, but Robin always cleaned his bow himself just like he made his own arrows, even though there were some very good arrow-makers among the soldiers. Robin, however, claimed that none of them had Dan Scarlett’s talented and steady hands and since Robin learned arrow making from him, he was the best at making his own arrows.


	2. Hero of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much distinguishes himself at the Battle of Acre and gains an unlikely aquaintance

They were woken by frantic yelling outside.

“They’re here! Saladin’s army is here!”

Robin didn’t even bother with most of his armour, simply yanking the chainmail over his head together with his surcoat.

“Much – ;“ He began but Much was already at his side, dressed, and holding Robin’s shield.

The whole King’s Guard waited around King Richard and the messenger.

“Where are they?” King Richard wanted to know.

“They’re... attacking Guy de Lusignan’s camp,” the messenger said breathlessly. He was bleeding heavily from an arrow wound in his upper leg. “He stood... his ground when I left... but the Templars began to engage Saladin’s... right wing.”

“Were they still moving their positions when you left?”

“Yes... a semicircle... facing to Acre.”

The king’s face gave nothing away what he thought about Saladin’s tactic. He turned to Robin. “I want to send a man to de Lusignan’s camp to tell him and Gerard of the Templars to put their crossbowmen in the first line and the heavy cavalry in second. In the meantime I will rally the troops to attack their left wing.”

Robin threw a look at Much who nodded, bowed to the King and quickly left the tent.

“He, what’s happening?” LeGrand was late, coming around the tents when Much mounted his horse.

“We’re attacked,” Much said hurriedly and careered through the tents and scattered soldiers. The nearer he got the louder he could hear the noise of battle, ducked an arrow and finally arrived in Guy de Lusignan’s camp.

“Where’s your master?” He asked the first soldiers he came across. They were transporting some of the wounded away from the battlefield.

“If you mean Lord de Lusignan, he’s over there.” One of them waved into the direction of the battle.

Much had to make his way through more and more soldiers and kept asking them for their master but most of them simply shrugged.

“Lord de Lusignan?” He asked again when a man in a Templar’s surcoat turned around and asked.

“What do you want from him?”

“King Richard sends me.”

“You’re of the King’s Guard?” The Templar asked but before Much could answer he waved him to dismount and follow him. Much did so. He couldn’t help but notice the other man’s fair hair, Tahir’s comment yesterday still rang in his memory.

“He’s counselling with Grand Master de Ridefort,” the Templar told him while they were walking away from the front lines and towards a tent that was only marginally less stately than King Richard’s.

“Grand Master, my lord,” The Templar greeted them respectfully, “I bring you a messenger from King Richard.”

“Well then, speak,” Guy de Lusignan prompted. He was not a man that would be easily overlooked and his deep voice supported his confident demeanour.

“The King asks you to... ” Quickly, Much repeated what his king had said.

“What is your name?” Gerard wanted to know.

“Much, my lord.”

“And you serve in the King’s Guard?” It was obvious that Gerard wondered whose noble's younger brother or bastard Much was.

“I – ;“ Much began but de Lusignan interrupted him. “That's not important.” He turned to Much. “You have a horse, I presume?” Much nodded.

“Good, report to Captain Louis, tell him what you told me. He’s in charge of the crossbowmen. Then you report back to me. King Richard has King Phillip’s men at his disposal. I need every man I have here.” de Lusignan’s voice left no room for protest.

“Of course, my lord,” Much answered. When he left the tent, he could see the Templar smiling and nodding at him as if to wish him good luck. Much supposed he would need it.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

“Captain Louis?” The man turned to Much but in the same moment an arrow buried itself in his unprotected neck and pushed him from his horse. Much jumped from his own horse and crouched behind his shield.

“Who’s your commander?” he asked the soldier next to him. The man gave him a disbelieving look and shrugged to the corpse. “He isn’t my commander any more.”

“Who then?”

“How should I know? Go ask someone whose blood is bluer than mine.” He rolled his eyes and pressed the next bolt into his crossbow. As far as Much could see no one took command. The line of crossbowmen threatened to fray out.

“Riders!” someone shouted, but he didn’t mean de Lusignan’s heavy cavalry in their backs.

Saladin had unleashed his deathliest weapon. his light cavalry. Much didn’t have time to think. He shouldered his shield, mounted his horse and shouted.

“Make room! Aim for their bodies. Their armour is lighter than ours!”

And miraculously everyone obeyed.

Much raced along the line, repeating his order for every unit until they resembled something like a front. North of them, Saladin’s right wing was already fighting with the Templar’s who hadn’t managed to draw their forces together and engaged Saladin’s forces in a disjointed battle.

The sun was already high on the sky when something unexpected happened. Instead of charging against them, the Saracen soldiers suddenly withdrew. Guy de Lusignan followed them with his cavalry, followed by the infantry and the crossbowmen. Withdrawing, after all, meant an opportunity for scavenging.

de Lusignan’s whole army rushed forward in blind greed. Much dismounted to take a Saracen bow from one of the enemy soldiers, thinking that Robin would probably be interested in this, before chaos descended upon them.

It had been a trap.

And they had fallen right into it.

Someone knocked Much over while they were fleeing from Saladin’s army and he fell into the sand. Fortunately he was still relatively near the original battle line or else he would have been killed by Saladin’s refreshed forces.

Much came back to his feet but someone else ran or rather fell into him. Much’s hands automatically tried to pushed him back but they found nothing but soft and wet warmth. Despite having his stomach sliced open the man above Much had managed to run this far. Something worth admiring if he didn’t try to grab Much with his last strength, damning him to the same fate as him.

Much didn’t think. He tightened his grip onto the man’s innards and pushed with all his strength. The man let out a choked scream – and Much came free with bits of innards on his bloody hands. He grabbed onto the next soldier that came in his direction and had a crossbow on his back.

“You! Stay here!” he ordered with the same commanding tone that he had heard so often from Robin or the King. “Shoot at anything that looks like a Saracen.”

He grabbed the next crossbowman, and the next, and the next. He had maybe twenty men around him when he grabbed someone who brushed him off.

“Stay away, soldier.” He had heard that voice only once, but he recognised it. Guy de Lusignan.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” he replied immediately.

“You’re that messenger from King Richard.” Much could feel de Lusignan’s heavy gaze on him. “Where’s Captain Louis?”

“He fell.”

“Good work.” de Lusignan had a calculating look on his face while he looked at Much’s little troop. Then he said. “Damn.”

Much followed de Lusignan’s eyes and saw a banner raised in the middle of the enemy forces.

“Whose banner is that?”

“Conrad de Montferrat,” de Lusignan’s expression darkened. “I need to rally my men as well.”

“Take my horse, my lord,” Much offered.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, my lord,” Much assured him. “I will hold this line.”

“You better do,” Guy de Lusignan gave him a smirk when he mounted Much’s horse. “I won’t like to see my wife and my daughters as Saracen prisoners.”

“Yala-l-Islam!” The Saracens’ battle cry filled the air but Much took every man he could reach and placed them in a line, covering the retreat of the rest of their army and de Lusignan charge into Saracen territory to rescue Conrad de Montferrat.

“Stop!” Much hauled another fleeing soldier into his makeshift battle front.

“I can’t fight,” the man begged with tears in his eyes. He was right, Much realized, his left arm was cut open to the bone from the shoulder to the hand.

“Yes, you can,” Much told him firmly.

“I don’t want to die,” the man cried. He would die; no physician could save him from a wound like that.

“There are women in the camp, and children. Do you want to tell God you failed them?” Much looked him in the eyes. “You can fight.”

The man trembled but he raised his right hand and the sword in it.

The battlefield cleared. Most of their army had made the retreat behind the battle line but Much could still see Conrad de Montferrat’s banner surrounded by Saracens', though he had seen de Lusignan breaking through the enemy’s lines earlier together with handful of his knights.

“You!” Much ordered the man with the open arm. “Hold this line.” The man stared at him with wide open eyes.

“Cover our backs, but try not to shoot King Guy or any other of our knights.”

Much picked fifty men, mostly uncommanded infantry soldiers, and began to advance against the Saracens. They only needed to break them up enough for de Lusignan and his rescue troop to escape.  
That had been the plan at least.

What Much didn’t know, couldn’t have known, was that the army in front of him wasn’t just one of the Saracen’s regular units. It was Saladin’s own corps, the elite of the Saracen military.

“For the King!” Much shouted and charged ahead.

It wasn’t a battle. It was a slaughter. Saladin’s guard mowed them down effortlessly. Much was both lucky and had one advantage. his shield. The man next to him was beheaded by a Saracen rider but when he tried to do the same thing to Much, Much raised his small shield over his head, blocking the attack and thrusting his sword into the rider’s barely protected side. His horse bolted and crushed another rider when it collided with them. Much tasted blood but he couldn’t say if it was his own or someone else’s.

Behind him he heard the omnipresent “Yala-l-Islam” and whirled around with his shield raised just in time to prevent a strike to his shoulder. The Saracen said something that sounded like a curse and attacked Much again. Much held his defence but he could hear a snap and felt immense pain in his left wrist. He rammed his sword into the horse’s side. The animal reared up but its rider wasn’t fortunate enough to be pushed out of his saddle before it fell to its side, burying his leg underneath its body.

Much yanked his sword out of its body. The Saracen was struggling to get out from underneath his horse. He tried to raise his sword against Much but Much simply knocked it out his hand before crushing his skull with a heavy step onto his face. Just in time to block another attack. If he had used his sword to kill the Saracen then he would have been dead himself.

On the bright side, Much’s charge distracted the Saracen’s enough for de Lusignan to break through their lines again.

It was sheer luck that de Lusignan broke through more or less the same moment Much was hit by a stray arrow in the leg and fell to his knees.

It was also sheer luck that de Lusignan recognized him.

“Eh!” he yelled at Much and reached out for him.

“I wondered why they suddenly seemed distracted,” de Lusignan said while they riding for the front line. “What you did was very stupid. And very brave.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Much panted, fighting against the pain in both his leg and his wrist. He could barely stand to hold on to de Lusignan.

The lines were drawn again but the sun was sinking rapidly and Saladin sent a messenger to them, announcing a draw that would allow both sides to pick up their dead.

De Lusignan had brought Much to the physician’s tent himself despite Much’s protests that he needed to get back to King Richard. He needed to know if Robin was still alive.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

“Much!” Much had never before been so relieved to see and hear Robin.

“Master!” Much sat up from his cot, “How are you, master?” In his relief he had fallen back into English.

“I’m fine, Much,” Robin kneeled down next to him. “Looks like you have a story to tell.” He sounded just as relieved to see Much alive as Much felt for him.

“I see King Richard takes notice when one of his heroes goes missing,” de Lusignan had appeared in the entrance of the tent.

“Guy de Lusignan,” He introduced himself to Robin.

“Robin of Locksley,” Robin replied, looking slightly confused.

“I’ve heard about you. You will be able to treat a hero’s story for a hero’s story with you friend then.”

Much blushed at de Lusignan’s casual mention of the word friend. He still didn’t know that Much wasn’t a knight, he wasn’t even a free man.

“I hope t ofight with you again,” de Lusignan nodded to Much with a small smile. “Lord Locksley.” Then he left the tent.

“Much, what – ;“ Robin asked. And Much explained. In English, just to be sure that no one overheard them. At the end of his story Robin shook with laughter but he looked at Much like he was very, very proud of him.

“That’s a good story to tell when we go home,” Robin said, “But first let’s get back to our camp, before de Lusignan finds out that a serf saved his life. Hell, I might have to set you free just because of that,” Robin grinned. Much grinned uncertainly back.

“How’s your leg? Can you walk yet?” Much shook his head.

“Come on,” Robin hauled him up and supported most of Much’s weight for the short way to his horse.

“Thank you, master,” Much gasped.

On the way back, Robin filled him in with the parts of the battle Much had missed. King Richard had managed to keep Saladin’s left wing engaged in battle so that they couldn’t help the right wing that had practically crushed the Templars who had suffered great losses, among them their Grand Master. Also, the retreat hadn’t been a trap; it had been a genuine flight from the battlefield on the Saracens behalf until Guy de Lusignan’s army had actually managed to reach Saladin’s core troops.

Much wondered briefly if the Templar that had brought him to Guy de Lusignan in the first place had survived.

The good news were that they would get reinforcement from the rest of the nobles that were still at Tyre, among them half of Phillip’s army, to close a siege around Acre.

The bad news was that they themselves were practically surrounded by Saladin and would be besieged themselves until the Emperor arrived.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

Despite their earlier fight, both Jehan and Adhémar were relieved when Much came back alive. They had their own battle stories to tell of course but none as outrageous as Much’s.

Jehan even made him a pair of crutches so that Much could at least walk around, even if he could barely do anything else because his wrist needed to heal as well. According to the physician it was not broken and should be fine after a few days, but it still annoyed Much that he was as good as useless. Robin did everything and teased Much about being unhappy over not having to carry to Robin’s every whim for once.

Only it wasn’t like that, because Robin was a good master. Even if he didn’t talk about it, everyone knew that James patronized Jocelin badly and that LeGrand thrashed Adhémar when he was drunk and in a bad mood. Only Roger was similarly mild-tempered as Robin but he and Jehan barely got along and Much doubted that Roger knew the name of Jehan’s father or that Jehan remembered who had married Roger’s sister when Robin had told Much about his father’s death and knew the names of all of Much’s siblings even though they were long dead, succumbed to the plague that had taken so many lives in Nottinghamshire seven years ago.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

“Much,” Robin called. With some effort due to the sandy surface, Much struggled to stand on his crutches. He met him halfway to the king’s tent.

“Master,” Much still hid his face in embarrassment when Robin held the tent flaps open for him.

“Robin,” the king greeted his captain.

“Much, I see you do better.” It was Guy de Lusignan standing next to King Richard and King Phillip.

“You know him!” King Richard was surprised.

“Of course I do. He is the reason I am here. You have never sent me a more capable messenger, Richard.”

“But he’s just Robin’s servant,” King Richard replied confused. De Lusignan raised his eyebrows and King Phillip snickered. “The mighty King Guy, saved by a serf. What a story for your court.”

Guy de Lusignan regarded Much with newly awakened curiosity.

“Anyway, “ King Richard said, “You wanted to speak with me, Robin?”

“Not if you’re occupied, Your Majesty.”

“Nonsense, what do you want?”

“I wanted to ask you to employ Much in your guard as my squire.”

“But he’s already your servant.”

“In regard to his achievements on the battlefield , I would think it sensible to give him a more active role in this war,” Robin spoke freely and confidently. Much knew King Richard usually valued that in Robin, and only in Robin, but he wasn’t so sure this time.

“Mmm, that’s a very unusual request. But as apparently even the King of Jerusalem can verify your servant’s skills. Very well,” he turned to Much. “Much,” he hesitated. “from Locksley, are you ready to swear your loyalty to me and this crusade as a free man?”

Much’s heart seemed to want to burst out of his chest but he managed to say. “Yes.”

“Kneel down.” Much did, with some difficulty and he doubted that he would make it up again without some help, and took the king's hand.

“I promise by my faith that I will in the future be faithful to the Lord, never cause Him harm and will observe my homage to Him completely against all persons in good faith and without deceit.“ Much repeated the words Robin had spoken two years ago in Poitiers and was now officially a free man and a soldier of King Richard’s guard.

He expected to feel different ,but there was nothing except for the knowledge that Robin valued him this highly. He silently swore that he would repay Robin’s kindness one day.

“In what curious times we live,” King Phillip murmured when he brushed past King Richard. “Next thing you know, we will actually elect kings.”

King Richard’s eyes followed King Phillip for a moment, watching him retreat into another part of the tent with something akin to tenderness in his expression before he turned back.

“Well, give my regards to your family, Guy.”

“Of course.” Guy de Lusignan turned to leave but he spoke to Much before he did, “I will see you again, Squire Much.”

“Get some rest, Robin,” King Richard advised him, “There will be enough fighting when the emperor arrives.” With that he followed King Phillip.

“Master?” Much asked feebly. Robin shook his head as if trying to get rid of an unpleasant thought and helped Much up.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

“Oho, the hero of the battle returns!” Jehan boomed when Much approached the small group at the fire.

“Well yes, I was quite... heroic,” Much replied without much false modesty.

“Can you sit with us, now that you are a free man and everything?” Adhémar asked dryly.

“Very funny,” Much told him and sat down next to Jocelin with some difficulty.

“The squire of the Earl of Huntington,” Jehan winked. “You will be a catch for all the girls both around here and back home.”

“It’s not really the right time to think about that, is it?” Much said, thinking of Robin’s broken engagement to the young lady Marian.

“There are some very pretty girls around here,” Jehan grinned lewdly.

“You would know,” Adhémar rolled his eyes. “You’re about as good-looking as my master but with less money to pay the pretty whores.”

Jehan opened his mouth in a offended gasp but no reply followed.

“The king married his wife on the way here,” Jocelin said quietly.

“I heard she’s hideous,” Jehan said snidely.

“She isn’t. I’ve seen her when my master greeted her and the king’s mother in Limassol.”

“I’ve heard the king is the problem and not the queen, anyway,” Adhémar interrupted.

“What do you mean?” Much asked.

“When the queen arrived in Cyprus all of a sudden, King Philip apparently threw a tantrum. Think about it, King Philip even helped our with a rebellion against old King Henry.”

“Are you implying that – ;“ Much began.

“That our king’s a sodomite, yes. The French king too.”

“That’s outrageous!” Much exclaimed scandalised.

“And not true,” Jocelin interrupted. “The king was engaged to King Philip’s sister. That was why he was upset.”

“Yeah, as if he would have married his father’s whore,” Adhémar replied sarcastically.

“I’ve heard that the princess is extremely pretty, so no blame on the old king,” Jehan said. “Perhaps the queen isn’t hideous, as you say Jocelin, but I’ve been told that the French princess is even prettier than her brother and he’s nearly as fair as a girl himself.”

The lull in their conversation was followed by Jehan slapping a hand on Much’s shoulder and declaring. “We should have a feast in your honour, but since we’re under siege and everything, I can only offer you old wine.” He held his wineskin out to him and Much took it. Adhémar and Jocelin were holding up their skins as well.

“To Much,” Jocelin said.

“To Much!” Adhémar and Jehan repeated and drank.

Much grinned happily before he drank himself.


	3. One More Day’s Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Battle of Acre Saladin besieges the Crusaders, cutting them off from any supplies and the situation in the camp detoriates quickly.

“King Richard?” the man asked. His accent was unfamiliar and thick, so thick that Much nearly didn’t understand him.

“Who’s asking?” Robin asked instead of answering.

“Saer Thurstan, I am... I was a knight in the Emperor’s army.”

“What do you mean ‘was’? Did you desert?”

“No, the Emperor is dead. His army has disbanded.”

“What?” Much voiced the shock that he could see clearly on Robin’s face.

“Much,“ Robin turned to him. “Send messengers to the nobles. I will bring this man to the King.”

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

There was a small hollow in one of the hills just above the King’s camp. Robin was feasting with LeGrand and Roger and had told him to take the night off and enjoy himself, but Jocelin attended to James, Jehan had managed to found a woman that was willing to share his bed and Adhémar was sick with fever and nausea.

Much liked to come here when he wasn’t needed anywhere else. It was a private place, somewhere he could pray and think of home. There were hollows like this around the hills in Nottingham and even though they had been considerable less sandy and wetter, the familiarity was enough to cure his homesickness at least for a handful of moments.

“This is insanity, Richard!” Much listened attentively. He knew that voice even though he couldn’t place it.

“We should have never come here. I should have never followed you in the first place.”

“It’s not all lost, Philip.” Much cowered instinctively deeper into the hollow. He doubted that King Richard wanted to be overheard by a peasant.

“Saladin has us surrounded!” King Philip barely tried to keep his voice down. “And the emperor won’t come.”

“There’s still the Italian fleet.”

“Saladin has an army that is three, maybe four times as powerful as ours. Do you really think the fleet will arrive in time to save us?”

“They are not the only ones. Did you think I sent my mother and my wife home only to keep them out of my way? They rally my vassals as we speak.”

“Oh yes, your pretty little wife will save us all and you will bestow her with a true knight’s kiss.” King Philip sounded just as sarcastic as Adhémar usually did but a lot more hurt, Much thought.

“She’s gone,” King Richard said quietly. “I can’t see why you are still this upset. It’s not like you’re not married.”

“Was married,” King Philip reminded him acidicly.

“This is not still about Alix, is it?”

“Of course not,” Philip sounded insulted by the mere implication. “Why should I be upset over a promise that was broken years and years ago?”

“Because you were always a sore loser.” There was a teasing tone in his voice that Much had never heard from the King before. Philip let out a chuckle.

“I can show you how much of a sore loser I am.” Retreating steps through the sand but Much didn’t move until he was absolutely sure that both kings were gone.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

“Can you bring me some oranges, Much?” Robin asked after pretty much collapsing on his cot. Much couldn’t blame him. Being under siege while they besieged Acre was... exhausting to say the very least. And Acre still received fresh food and reinforcements by Saladin’s fleet. It was actually more like being under siege from both sides.

“I’m sorry, master but we don’t have any,” Much replied. Five months so far and the rations became smaller and smaller with every day. Until a few days ago Much had fed Robin what they had had left from the time before the Battle of Acre but the last orange was gone yesterday.

“How about some wine instead?” Much asked but Robin had already fallen asleep. Once upon a time Much would have woken him up to help remove his chain mail but that was pointless now. Everyone slept in their armour; the next attack from the Saracen would come, it was just a matter of when.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

And so it continued. Life seemed to keep only two different nightmares for them. in one they starved slowly under the unforgiving sun on the sand between Acre and Saladin’s army and in the other they were overrun and sold into slavery.

The nightmares changed places constantly but currently they lived in the first one. Hunger was bitter reality throughout the camp and couldn’t be ignored.

Much, who had felt hunger more often than not before he had become Robin’s servant, still found the strength to be cheery because there was the faint possibility that it might make Robin crack a smile and distract him from the gnawing, all absorbing pain of extreme starvation that had to hit Robin harder than him because Robin hadn’t known hunger before.

It was even worse on the nights when they burned their fallen comrades. The sheer smell of burning flesh, no matter what flesh it was, made Much turn away and bite his knuckles so that he wouldn’t lose control.

The worse thing was that the Saracen’s fouled the two rivers that flew into the sea near Acre. Every day both streams were filled with dead animals and the beheaded corpses of Christian soldiers. It was disgusting but there were no wells and no one had the strength left to dig one.

So everyone drank the water and everyone became ill. Some were worse off than the others, depending on how much wine they still owned. Adhémar steadily fought bouts of fever, pain and nausea but when he could stand he pulled his weight like everyone else.

The steady streams of attacks meant that they had to replace the barricades constantly, heavy labour even for a healthy man and those were a rarity in the Crusader’s camp. At least Acre had to do as bad as them, since one of the feared Mediterranean winter storms had destroyed Saladin’s fleet.

“Master, I can take over,” Much offered. Robin helped with the barricades as did other nobles. There were not enough men left for them to sit around and do nothing.

Robin stepped back, took a deep breath and handed the shovel to Much.

“Maybe we’ll defeat them today,” Jehan winked at him. “Packing Acre full of soldiers was only a good idea when they still had the fleet. You’ll see in a week we’ll be lords of Acre and wait for the Italians there.”

“Wishful thinking,” Adhémar snorted next to them. He was ghastly thin like the rest of them but the malaria had given him a pale, clammy skin that made him look less alive than the rest of them.

Slowly, sluggishly slowly, the hours crawled by. What they were doing was mostly pointless; the next Saracen charge would undoubtedly knock down the barricades, but it could be the proverbial hair that broke the camel’s back. Much had heard Harun saying this more than once and he briefly wondered how the man and his family were doing. They were probably glad that Saladin had reclaimed their land.

It was so easy to get lost between the mindless, heavy labour and the eternal hunger that Much at first didn’t notice that next to him, Jehan had collapsed and lay dead still in the sand. When he regained consciousness a short time later, Jehan babbled apologies and promised to go back to work if they could only give him something to eat.

“I’m not a quitter or a slacker,” Jehan assured them, “but I know if I don’t get something to eat I will die.”

Much’s whole food was in a pouch on his belt; four shells he had found in the river that morning. He took them out and fed them slowly to Jehan, one after the other.

“Thanks, mate,” Jehan whispered deeply moved.

He died two hours later.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

“You wanted to see me, Your Majesty?” Much asked when he stood in the entrance of Guy de Lusignan’s tent. The King of Jerusalem was scared by another scourge of the Crusader’s camp; scurvy. His nails and teeth were bloody, his legs too swollen for him to walk and the breathlessness made it harder for Much to understand him.

“Yes, “ Guy de Lusignan waved him inside. “Richard will owe me a favour for this,” he chuckled breathlessly.

“Your Majesty?” Much asked uncertain.

“Can you read?”

“No,” Much answered truthfully. Robin had tried to teach him, mostly to kill his own boredom, but Much had never managed to catch on.

“Good, Conrad will say to tyre in a few days. I want you to accompany him and deliver this letter to Princess Isabella.”

“I’m needed here at my Master’s side,” Much protested.

“Your loyalty is worthy of admiration.” de Lusignan’s tone made clear that e wouldn’t accept a no.

“I’m not the best... I mean I’m not even a noble. Roger of Stoke is a noble,“ Much continued hastily, “And he’s an excellent messenger. King Richard relies on him very much.”

“That’s why I want you to go. Your loyalty lies with your master, not with the king.”

“I swore an oath to the king,” Much protested immediately.

“If your master turned against King Richard, who would you follow?” de Lusignan asked, his calculating dark eyes never leaving Much’s face. When Much failed to answer, he said. “I thought as much.”

“Princess Isabella, you say?” Much replied. Guy de Lusignan gave an approximation of laughter and handed Much the letter.

“Show the seal, make sure that only she or her husband open this letter.”

“I will, Your Majesty,” Much promised, but it never happened.

Saladin was both a patient and an intelligent man. He had waited long enough and continued to strengthen his army over the previous months before he attacked the Christian camp. If he had waited any longer, he knew there was the possibility that Acre would surrender and even with virtually no supplies, it would be a lot harder to get rid of the Christians once they had taken Acre.

He attacked on the same day Conrad de Montferrat was to leave the camp for Tyre by his ship.

Saladin’s army actually overran the barricades and the first few rows of tents before they were met with anything even resembling resistance.

Much remembered that he had been on the way to the ship with Robin at his side when he had heard the much dreaded “Yala-l-Islam”. Robin managed to turn around in time and actually shot the first two Saracens that reached them before another hit him over the head and Robin slumped into the sand.

“Oh,” Much said and thought, ‘That’s not how I thought it would end,’ before he was beaten down as well.


	4. Watch How I Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much and Robin are taken prisoner by the Saracens.

“Much. Much!” He woke to Robin urgently repeating his name again and again.

“Five more minutes, master,” he murmured and wanted to sink back into unconsciousness but Robin shook his shoulder and kept him awake.

“Much,” Robin said again with a relived smile before he drew him into a tight embrace and kissed his cheek.

“Where are we master?” Much whispered in English. They were both shackled to a wall but other than that, Much was clueless.

“I think we’re prisoners of the Turks,” Robin replied.

“But why haven’t they killed us yet?”

“I don’t know.” And Much knew that Robin hated nothing as much as not knowing.

The door was opened and two Saracens stepped inside.

“Which of you is the messenger?” One of them asked in French with a raspy accent and held Guy de Lusignan’s letter in front of Robin’s and Much’s faces.

Robin shook his head and Much followed suit.

“Who wrote this letter?”

“How far is the Franks’ army?”

“What are your names?”

“What is the destination of the ship that left your camp?”

“How many troops do you have?”

Robin shook his head at every question and so did Much. When the Saracens saw that simple questioning wouldn’t bring them any further, they retreated to the far side of the room to speak to themselves.

“I don’t think this will be this easy again,” Robin murmured but Much strained his ears and tried to listen to the conversation between their capturers.

“They think we’re German scouts,” Much translated into English.

“You can understand them?” Robin asked astonished; “When – ?”

“Later, master,” Much replied apologetically and continued to listen. He felt self-conscious with Robin staring at him as if he had done something extraordinary.

Much flinched at the last words the men said before they left the room again. “They want to break our fingers one by one and if we still don’t talk then they will bring us to… I think that’s a name.”

“Let them try,” Robin replied snidely.

“But master your hands…” Much didn’t continue. He knew that breaking Robins fingers would likely cost him his archery talent.

“You could tell them who you are,” Much urged him, “You’re the Captain of King Richard’s Guard. They would let you go for a ransom.”

“And leave you here? No, Much, we’re in this together.” Robin’s voice left no room for argument.  
“But I’m only your servant,” Much protested.

“You’re my friend, Much.” Robin rested his head on Much’s shoulder. “I will not leave you to die here.”

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

“Him.” The Saracen who had asked them questions earlier pointed at Robin and his men grabbed him wordlessly.

“No, Master! Master!” Much yelled and struggled against his chains, but of course it was useless.  
Robin winked at him before they dragged him out.

The waiting was worse than anything else. It exceeded the hunger and the illnesses and the foul water. The walls were too thick for Much to hear anything but his own breath and he had nothing to distract him but his on thoughts.

He had seen torture, had seen it numerous times. Captured enemy soldiers were tortured for any information they might have, unless they were nobles and could be held for ransom. On the ship between Cyprus and Tyre deserters who had been caught, had been flayed alive and sprayed with salt water until they jumped over board to kill themselves to finally get rid of the pain.

Much had never taken part in it, but he had seen it often enough to know what sufficient pain could make a man do, even a man like Robin.

They finally came back with Robin in what seemed like hours later and shackled him to the wall again.

“Master!” Much turned to Robin who bled from a split lip and a cut over his eyebrow but seemed fine otherwise. At least his hands were still unharmed.

“I’m fine, Much. Who needs toes anyway?” Robin chuckled weakly.

“Don’t do this, master, not for me.”

“For whom, then?” Robin wiped the blood out of his eyes to look at Much. “I’m not going to return without you.”

“But master – ;“ Robin interrupted him. “You don’t tell them who I am, understood?” When Much hesitated, Robin added sternly. “That’s an order, Much.”

“Fine,” Much agreed eventually, “But I don’t agree with you.”

“Didn’t think you would,” Robin smirked. He shook his head. “I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me that you understand Arabic.”

“It’s not much,” Much shrugged. “Only enough to trade.”

“Teach me.”

“What?”

“You heard me, teach me. We’ll be stuck here for a long time. It’ll give us something to do.”

“I could sing,” Much offered, feeling uncomfortable with the idea of teaching Robin anything.

“Much I’ll let you sing when I have become deaf,” Robin’s eyes widened in slight annoyance. “Come on, teach me. How do you say good morning?”

“Sabah el kheer,” Much replied before he could really think about it.

“See, Robin grinned. “That was not that hard, was it? Sabah el kheer,” he repeated. “What about ‘I don’t know‘?”

“La a’ref!”

“La a’ref!” Robin repeated.

They continued like this for the whole night. Robin asked for a word or a phrase and Much translated it as well as he could.

In the morning the door was opened by an old, white-haired man who put two bowls and a wineskin in front of them and told them. “Ki!” before he left again.

“It means ‘eat’,” Much translated and grabbed one of the bowls greedily while giving the other to Robin. Earlier, he had seen Robin flinch when he moved so Much did the moving for him. Robin’s toes had to hurt enough as they were.

The bowls were filled with a piece of flatbread, fruits and cold cuts of chicken, even a portion as small as this was equalled as a feast for Robin and Much.

“They really want us to stay alive,” Robin said thoughtfully between two bites.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Much asked cheerfully.

“We’ll see.”

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

The door opened again, but this time it wasn’t the old man. Robin pressed Much’s hand briefly.

“Remember what we agreed on.”

Much wrestled a pained expression from his face when they dragged him away. “I’m sorry, master.”

Just before the door closed Much could see understanding dawning on Robin’s face. “Much! Much! No!”

They brought him upstairs. The sun only entered the room by a handful of small slides in the wall but Much had to shield his eyes from the brightness for a few moments.

“Please, sit.” Much recognised the man as the Saracen who had asked the questions the day before.

“What is your name?”

“Much from Locksley.”

“Well then Much from Locksley, who gave you this letter?”

“Before I answer your questions I have a demand to make.” Much felt strangely unattached from the imminent danger around him. He did this for Robin. So that at least one of them could return home.

His confident behaviour visibly surprised his opponent.

“What demand?” he asked.

“My companion is Robin, Earl of Huntington. I expect that you treat him well until you receive his ransom from King Richard.”

“You care about him. I respect that.” The other man visibly relaxed. “Your demands will be met.” He ordered one of the soldiers immediately to bring the remaining prisoner to the guest quarters.

“Now to this letter. Have you read it?”

“No.”

“Do you know its content?”

“No.” The Saracen raised his eyebrows. “What if you had lost it?”

“I was trusted not to lose it,” Much replied evenly.

“Who gave it to you?”

“The King of Jerusalem.”

“Sala-ad-Din is the King of Jerusalem,” the Saracen corrected him sharply.

“He’s your King, not mine,” Much replied.

“Who should you give it to?”

“The princess of Jerusalem.”

“What was the destination of the ship that left your camp on the day of our battle?”

“It was going to the Princesses court.”

“How far is the Franks’ relief army from Acre?”

“I don’t know,” Much answered truthfully. There hadn’t even been a rumour about a relief army in the camp.

“Who is leading them?”

“I don’t know.”

“I have many ways to make you talk if you continue to give me such vague answers,” the man threatened him impatiently.

“I know.” Much’s resolve crumbled for a moment but then he took a deep breath and regained control over his shaky voice..“I don’t care.”

“Take him away,” his interrogator said in Arabic.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

They brought him back into the cellar but Robin wasn’t there any more. Much let out a relived sigh before they shackled him to the wall, face first this time. He hoped that the Saracen would hold true to his word and release Robin against a ransom or else this would all be in vain.

Someone cut away his shirt and ripped the shreds from his body.

“wahed.” The first lash came unexpected. It didn’t break his skin but it hurt. It hurt a lOt.

“ithnaan”

“thalatha” Much sobbed when he felt blood trickled down his back.

“arba'a”

“khamsa”

“Who wrote the letter?”

“I don’t know,” Much answered stubbornly.

“Sita”

“Who was its intended recipient?”

“I don’t know.”

“Saba'a”

“What was the destination of the ship that left your camp on the day of our battle?”

“I don’t know.”

“thamâniya”

“How far is the Franks’ relief army from Acre?”

“I don’t know.”

“tisa’a”

“Who is leading them?”

“I don’t know.”

“ashra” Much’s bound hands scrambled helplessly against the wall in a futile attempt to get away. Tears were running over his face.

“I can make them stop. All you have to do is to answer me truthfully and in detail. Who wrote this letter?”

“I told you,” Much whimpered. “I told you.”

“Who?”

“The King of Jersualem.”

“Lies! 'ahada cashra”

“Who was its intended recipient?”

“The princess.”

“What’s her name?”

“I don’t know.”

“ithnâ cashra”

“What was the destination of the ship that left your camp on the day of our battle?”

“Please,” Much whispered over his tears.

“thalâtha cashra” the Saracen ordered unrelentingly. Much screamed when the whip hit the bones of his spine directly.

“How far is the Franks’ relief army from Acre?”

“Please,” he sobbed against the wall. “Please, I don’t know.”

“'arbaca cashra” Much was certain that he would never stop screaming. His back felt like someone had pressed him backwards into a heap of smoldering coals. It burnt so badly that it couldn’t be pain. Pain was hunger or a broken wrist and an arrow through the leg. This was so much worse.

“khamsa cashra” His own, inhuman screams rang in his ears but they didn’t made the Saracen stop. He continued with his questions but stopped waiting for Much’s answer.

“sitta cashra”

“sabca cashra”

“thamâniya cashra”

“tisca cashra”

“ishrûn” Much began slipping away. The burning pain spread through his limbs and up his neck until it reached his eyes and blackness crept into his vision. He recognised unconsciousness for what it was worth and tried to slip into it but –

“'ahad wa-cishrûn” they had noticed what he was trying to enforce and aimed the next lash at his neck instead of his back. Much’s eyes opened wide when the leather cut into his neck and ripped the skin open. He gasped against the wall but no noise came out of his mouth.

“ithnân wa-cishrûn”

“Are you already giving up?’ his captor mocked him. “I have been told better about the famous stubbornness of the Franks. Tell me who wrote this letter and I will make the pain stop.” He waited for an answer but Much didn’t give him one.

“thalâtha wa-cishrûn”

“'arbaca wa-cishrûn”

“khamsa wa-cishrûn” It would be so tempting. So tempting just to say Guy de Lusignan’s name or Isabella’s or Tyre and they would stop. They had gotten Robin out of here, surely the Saracen would keep his word again... .

“sitta wa-cishrûn”

“sabca wa-cishrûn” Much clenched his teeth, trying desperately to think of something to distract him from the pain. His fingertips were bloody as well from where he had tried to dig them into the rough wall.

“thamâniya wa-cishrûn”

“tisca wa-cishrûn”

“thalâthûn”

And suddenly it stopped. The thirty-first lash never came. At least not in this moment.

“Cut him down,” The Saracen ordered his men. “He’s no use to us dead. We’ll continue later.”

They simply let him collapse on the floor and left him there.

The old man came by later, placing the same bowl as yesterday in front of him but Much could barely manage to eat three grapes before he gave up. He couldn’t move. Tried not to breathe. Every small movement, every little draught set multiplied his agony by a thousand.

He couldn’t even cry because that would mean that he had to move, had to breathe.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

They came back the next day; at least Much supposed that it was the next day. He had slept or maybe blackened out from the pain now and again and had no way of telling the time.

The same thirty lashes on his back and the same questions.

When Much didn’t answer, they left him again eventually only to come back the next day.

And the next.

On the fourth day after they had someone else come down and clean his wounds. That was even worse than the actual torture, and the thought that they wanted to keep him alive wasn’t as comforting as it once had been.

Much broke for the first time in his second week in captivity. Twelve days and 27 lashes after he was taken, Much answers their first question.

“Who wrote this letter?”

“de Lusignan,” Much gasped and in the corner of his eyes he could see that the Saracen motioned his man to stop. “Guy de Lusignan, the King of Jerusalem.”

He waited for the next question, for the next lash but they never came.

“I knew we would understand each other sooner or later,” the Saracen said contently.

“Who was its intended recipient?”

But Much shook his head. He felt guilty enough for telling him Guy de Lusignan’s name, he would burden Robin and himself with further shame.

The Saracen sighed unsatisfied. “So you do possess that annoying Frank stubbornness after all. Well, we still made progress, didn’t we? Cut him loose.”

Much didn’t break again.

At least not under the whip.

They realised that after another week, when the Saracen was becoming impatient to get more answers out of Much. He lay on the ground while they were discussing what they would try on him next.

He made a desperate attempt at flight when the old man came to bring his food this night, but of course they caught him before he had even made it upstairs.

The same night they decided to brand both soles of his feet.

Much screamed Isabella’s name at the top of his lungs and sobbed Tyre against the feet of the Saracen, but he didn’t answer the last two questions.

They reopened the half-healed lash wounds on his back and poured vinegar on them.

They burned his feet again, his calves and thighs.

They broke all his toes, one by one.

“Please, the Emperor is dead, that’s all I know,” the Saracen spit into his face.

“We know that. Who leads his army now?”

“I don’t know. Please kill me, I don’t know.”

But they wouldn’t let him die. They even forced bits of food and water down his throat when he wouldn’t eat. He lost track of the days, of time altogether.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

“Take him out. Kill him.” If he could, Much would have fallen down on his knees in front of the Saracen and thanked him.

The guards hauled him upstairs, practically carrying Much because he couldn’t walk on his own any more. The sunlight was so bright that it nearly blinded him, but he gladly bore that bit of pain; so glad to see the sun one final time. The sky above him was blue and it was a warm, dry day. Much laughed when he heard other people’s voices, their laughter even though he couldn’t see anyone from the back alley where the guards were dragging him through out of the village.

The sight of the open, levant landscape was the most beautiful sight Much had ever seen.

Suddenly, they let go of him and Much fell down. He rolled on his back because if he had to die, then at least he wanted to see the sky for as long as possible . But the final hit never came.

“Much.” Robin kneeled over him, a hand on his cheek and it seemed like he was crying.

“Master, “Much asked puzzled. “Are you dead? Am I in Heaven?”

“No, “Robin breathed and smiled but his smile looked so sad like he was breaking apart at the seams. “No, Much you’re not dead. Brave, foolish Much.”

“Oh,” was all Much could think of saying. “I’m sorry I disobeyed you master.”

Robin kissed him on the forehead and said. “No more of this, my friend. We have to get you back first.”

“I can’t walk, master.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Robin gave him a tearful version of his usual crooked, boyish smile and kissed him again.

“I’m so glad you’re alive,” he whispered before ordering in a louder voice. “Matthew, Morgan, help me here.” Two men Much didn’t recognise heaved him onto a stretcher and lifted him up.

“Master – ;“ Much began but Robin took his hand and shook his head.

“Shush, you need to sleep Much. It’s okay, I’ve got you now.”


	5. Our Stars Align

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being rescued and while he’s healing Much becomes friends with Knight Templar Thomas.

When Much woke up again he was in a bed in a house he didn’t recognise, but the knowledge alone that he wasn’t in that cellar any more calmed him and eased his pain.

“Hey, you’re awake.” Much tried to twist around to see who had spoken but instead the man kneeled down next to him.

“Your master asked me to look after you while he looks after the King. I’m Thomas.”

His arm was bandaged and in a sling but he smiled and Much recognised him.

“You’re the Templar that brought me to King Guy.” Thomas’ smile widened. He seemed pleased that Much remembered him.

“I didn’t think you would recognise me. How are you feeling?”

“It hurts,” Much admitted. “But I’m here and not there anymore, so that’s good. Very good.”

“Your master is seen as quite the hero for slipping behind the enemy line with only two men at his side and getting you out.”

“It was very brave of him,” Much affirmed. He frowned. “Where are we? Is this Acre?”

“No, “Thomas laughed. “No, do you remember the abandoned village on the North side of the Belus?”

“We didn’t have enough men to take it,” Much answered unsure.

“We got reinforcements while you were captured,” Thomas told him. He seemed quite comfortable sitting on the floor next to Much’s bed.

“The Italian Fleet?”

“No, King Richard’s and King Philip’s vassals from the continent. Also, Leopold of Austria managed to take control of most of Barbarossa’s scattered army and led them here.”

“But Saladin’s siege!” Much threw in.

“We were holding him off for eight days. When he saw that he couldn’t overrun us, he decided to let time do the dirty work, but he didn’t know we would get help from home. No one did. You should have seen the King’s faces when the ships arrived. Hell, all our faces. I mean, I could barely remember decent food, could you?” Much shook his head but the memory of the long, tough months under siege, faded against the recent memories of his captivity.

“Anyway, Saladin was a bit taken aback, I imagine, when he got the news that our fleet had captured Haifa. Even if he still had had a fleet, he wouldn’t be able to enter the bay. We can do this, Much. We can win,” Thomas grinned. It was a good look on him, Much thought.

“How do you know my name?”

“I remembered from when we first met,” Thomas blushed. “Also your master told me.”

“Oh,” Much hesitated. “How long was I... I mean how many weeks have passed since Saladin attacked the camp?”

“Fourteen, I think,” Thomas replied frowning. “Yes, it’s been a little more than three months now.”

“Three months!” Much gasped.

“That’s why no one believed that Robin would bring you back alive. He stayed out there for a month or so. Even the King told him that it was madness,” Thomas winced slightly and moved his arm.

“You shouldn’t be sitting on the ground like this only to talk to me,” Much told him.

“Your back looks like it hurts more than my arm.”

“How did that happen? Your arm I mean.”

“Being in King Richard’s Guard is dangerous, as you know,” Thomas winked at him. “I went for years as a Knights Templar and never got any worse than a bad sunburn, but as soon as I joined the King’s Guard, I get shot down by a Turk.”

“Knights Templar can become part of the King’s Guard?” Much frowned.

“Well, I’m one of maybe a dozen Knights Templars left in this camp. And we haven’t had a Grandmaster since Gerard died, so we have no commander at the moment. Since I’m from England, I thought I’d make myself useful and protect the King until a new Grandmaster was elected.”

“What part of England do you come from?”

“Oxfordshire, what about you? I mean, you speak French like a Norman but your master spoke English to you when he visited you.”

“We’re from Nottinghamshire. My master is the lord of Locksley, Earl of Huntington.”

“I’m not able to keep up with a title like this. But a credo of my order says that we’re all equal anyway.”

“But we’re not,” Much replied, thinking it was a joke. Thomas shrugged. “All I know is that you have the reputation of a war hero from the battle, and as long as I haven’t achieved that title myself, you’re above me.”

“Much, you’re awake,” Robin came into the room. He looked tired. “Thank you Thomas.”

“Any time,” Thomas answered but he was looking at Much.

Robin took Thomas’ position next to Much’s bed. “I’m sorry Much, the King expects me to entertain our Saracen guest.”

“A Saracen guest?” Much asked alarmed. “It’s not Saladin, isn’t it?”

“No, he’s called Ibn Jubayr. He’s an ambassador from Spain that travels back home.” Robin shook his head thoughtfully. “He’s a strange man, Much. He seems to know a lot about us but we know next to nothing about the Saracens. Sorry,” Robin said before Much could reply anything. “How are you?”

“You rescued me, master.”

“Yes, Much , I did, And I expect you to be back on your feet as quickly as possible so that we can bring Acre down and go home,” Robin smirked. “By the way, I think this belongs to you.” He took something from under Much’s bed and held it up. It was Much’s Saracen shield.

“Thank you, master,” Much replied moved. Robin shrugged lightly. “I only got it from Jocelin.”

“Master, how did you know that I wasn’t dead?”

“I didn’t, but I thought that they wanted to know something from you and as long as you didn’t give it to them you’d be alive.” Much looked away from Robin in shame when he said that.

“Much?” Robin asked.

“I did tell them,” Much said quietly. “At least the things I knew. Not immediately, of course, but I did tell them.”

“Oh Much.” Robin curled a hand around Much’s arm. “I was there, remember? They broke two of my toes just because I didn’t want to tell them my name. No one blames you for anything. We’ve both seen what torture does to a man and you were gone for three months. That’s a lot longer than most others would have lasted.”

“When did they set you free?” Much asked to change the subject.

“After a week, King Richard paid the ransom for me. He said that he didn’t need the money at the moment anyway, because he couldn’t eat it,” Robin chuckled and so did Much. It was good to be back.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

That night the dreams started. Much didn’t remember them but he remembered that when he woke up, he was so sure that he was back in the cellar that he jerked away in fear when Robin touched him to comfort him. The sudden movement pulled at his wounded back and he let out a choked scream.

“Sh, Much, it’s fine. You’re safe,” Robin whispered until Much fell asleep again. He had insisted that he would stay in the hospital with Much, even though the physicians had claimed that there was nothing he could do and would only be in their way, but Much was glad that Robin was there.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

Thomas came back the next day while Robin was occupied with the Saracen ambassador again.

“Hey,” he said and sat down next to Much’s bed again. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, well, better at least,” Much amended.

“Glad to hear that.” Thomas’ smiles were different from Robin’s. Robin’s smiles were boyish and mischievous, Thomas’ seemed to light up the room.

“Are you glad to hear that you’re not missing anything spectacular, just the same old skirmishes with the Turks?”

“I should be out there with my master,” Much replied quietly.

“You will. Maybe even earlier than me. I’ve heard the physicians talk about you and they’re amazed how much your wounds have healed already. Me? Not so much.” He gestured to his injured arm.

“How did that happen?”

“Lead a foray into a village. Of course I managed to catch the first arrow they shot with my arm. Not very heroic,” he smiled self-depravingly.

“Do you think heroics are that important?” Much asked.

“I believe heroic deeds make us immortal. I mean, look at all the men that are still remembered. Didn’t they all do something heroic?”

“I think I would rather go home,” Much answered truthfully. Thomas laughed.

“Well, the Greeks went home after they conquered Troy. I think you can do both.”

Thomas came by every day because Robin was occupied with the Saracen ambassador and brought bits and pieces from the front line and gossip from the King’s Guard. LeGrand and with him Adhémar had been sent to Cyprus and accompany the King’s mother and Queen Berengaria back to Aquitaine, while James and Jocelin were in Haifa to negotiate with merchants about the supplies for the camp.

Thomas was a man easy to like. He was a good storyteller and respectful, and even though Much was sure that he was of nobility, Thomas never mentioned his family beyond the stray mention of Oxfordshire.

He had also been right about Much healing fast. At least his back did, but he would need another few weeks until his feet and toes had healed enough for him to walk again.

Robin usually came late in the evening and left early in the morning, but he still slept in the same room as Much and was there to sooth him when the nightmares took over.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

“I see someone taught you our language,” ambassador Jubayr smiled. “I did not expect that from a Frank.”

“We are just as diverse as you are,” Robin replied easily. He had learned it after his return to the camp after King Richard had paid his ransom. Surprisingly enough, Much wasn’t the only soldier who had picked up the local language.

“Oh, believe me, I’ve encountered many Christians in my home in Balansíya,” the ambassador replied. “Most of them learned our language as well. My surprise merely stemmed from the fact that you are a crusader who doesn’t want to stay in this land after the war and yet you make the effort to get to know it.”

“Knowing your enemy is half the battle,” Robin replied just as easily. He felt impatient because he really didn’t want to be here. He wanted to see how Much was doing, not entertain a Saracen traveller even if it was the last day because the ambassador would leave on a merchant ship that sailed for Sicily today.

“That is a good advice,” Jubayr chuckled. “Perhaps I should warn my King that his Christian subjects will rise against him soon.”

“It is their country,” Robin countered. It always went like this. In some way or another Jubayr found a way to engage him into a discussion.

“But it is our country as well.”

“You conquered it.”

“As you did with this one?” Jubayr’s intelligent eyes rested on Robin’s face. “You say you have a right to Jerusalem because it is your Holy City. It is our Holy City as well. Have you ever talked with a Jew?”  
“No,” Robin answered. He couldn’t see where this was leading.

“Maybe you should. They claim this country as well, and Jerusalem as the land that their God gave to them. It seems like everyone wants Jerusalem for themselves.”

“Why don’t you help him then? Saladin.”

“He is not our ruler,” Jubayr explained. “We respect him, but we don’t own him anything. My people are content to remain in their own country. I am, of course, an exception. I’m a very curious person.”

“Is that why you came here?”

“Of course. Your King has some reputation amongst the people here. I wanted to see if he lived up to the rumours.”

“You were probably disappointed that he wasn’t a demon,” Robin bit out.

“Not at all. The people around here see your King in a favourable light, misguided and an unbeliever, yes, but a noble unbeliever if you will.”

Robin bit his tongue to avoid saying anything offending. It wouldn’t look good if he killed an ambassador on his way to the ship.

They stopped at the quay.

“It’s been a pleasure,” Robin lied.

“You are an interesting man, Robin of Locksley,” Jubayr said and reached into his cloak. “I will miss our discussions.” He took a small bundle and gave it to Robin.

“I assume a man like you can read Greek?”

“Yes, I can. What is this?”

“It’s a translation of the Qur’an. My people’s Bible if you will. I believe you will find it interesting.”

“Shokran jazeelan,” Robin thanked him, genuinely touched. He had always assumed that the ambassador only argued with him to annoy him and not because he found his arguments interesting. “Ma’a salama.”

“Ma’a salama, young Frank” Jubayr replied and climbed up the platform.

“Eh, Robin!” It was Matthew Kent, one of the two soldiers that had accompanied him into Saracen territory when he had saved Much.

“Matthew, was is it?”

“The King wants to speak with you. He convoked the council of Nobles.”

“Of course, run ahead and tell him I’m on my way.”

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

The taking of Haifa had secured the maintenance of supplies to the camp. As a side effect, scurvy had disappeared, but there were enough illnesses that weren’t cured by food and the camp still had to subsist on the foul water of the Belus. Many soldiers on both sides of the siege fell ill with malaria over the summer and more than a few of them died.

The Italian fleet arrived at the end of August, blocking the harbour and the bay of Haifa for once and all, but as of October, the storm season of the Mediterranean Sea began and every ship was forced to stay in.

The Italian fleet was not the only thing that arrived in September. With them, they had brought the plague. It was nothing short of a miracle that neither Much nor Thomas were infected, as the illnesses liked to target the wounded and weak. Others were not so lucky.

The rooms of the hospital were soon filled with the ill. At first the physicians had tried to keep the ill away from the wounded, but soon there simply wasn’t enough space. Robin had wanted for Much to return to their tent, but the physicians had argued that the constant fighting so near the front would upset Much’s principal fluids and make him ill again, so he stayed.

Every day they brought in more men with chills, rashes and headaches and every day they buried more and more of them.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

“You have a funny emblem on your shield. What house are you from?” A small voice asked. Much turned around to see a small girl, maybe eight or nine, examine his shield. He wondered how she got in here.

“It’s not an emblem. It’s a Saracen shield. They all look like this,” he explained to her.

“Why do you have it then?” she asked. Her face and arms were covered in little bumps that looked like insect bites. “No one can see your house if don’t wear it on your shield.”

“I don’t have a house.”

“You’re a peasant?” she frowned.

“No, I’m a soldier of the King’s Guard.” Much corrected her.

“My father is the King.” she replied cheerily. Much stared at her.

“Your father is King Richard?”

“No, silly,” she grinned. “My father is King Guy. And my mother is Queen Sybilla. They own this country. They own Jerusalem which makes them the most important –;“

“Alix!” The girl stooped, looking caught.

“Don’t tell him I’m here!” She laid a finger over Much’s lips. “It’s an order from the princess.” Alix crawled under his bed.

“Alix, I know you’re –;“ Guy de Lusignan appeared in the doorway, stopping mid-sentence when he saw Much.

“What a surprise.” He looked much older than the last time Much had seen him, as if instead of three months, Much had been gone three years.

“Your Majesty.” Much bowed his head and fisted his hands nervously into the blanket. He remembered his failure to deliver de Lusignan’s letter with great shame.

“I heard that you had returned, unlikely as it seemed.”

“I’m so sorry Your Majesty, I didn’t mean to... I mean I would have... ” de Lusignan interrupted his babbling.

“I believe that you did your best. Since you returned and that relatively unharmed, I believe that God still has plans for you. Important plans.”

“I – ... I – Thanks you, Your Majesty.” Much stuttered. de Lusignan nodded.

“Alix, come out under the bed.” The girl groaned in disappointment but did as her father told her.

“Come on,” he told her quietly. “Your mother waits for you.”

“Bye!” she waved at Much before she followed her father outside.

Much learned from Robin on the same night that Alix de Lusignan had died of the plague mere hours after Much had met her, together with her little sister and her mother.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

“Good to see you back on your feet.” Thomas smiled when he came in, carrying a quarter loaf of bread, a wineskin, some figs and a chunk of the local cheese. Much grinned happily. He could walk through the room and back to the bed by now and the physician was confident that he would be able to leave the hospital in about a week.

“Your arm looks better, too,” he pointed out.

Thomas didn’t wear the sling any more, but he only shrugged. “Still can’t use it like I did before.”

“Maybe it will get better when you fight again,” Much tried to cheer him up.

“Maybe,“ Thomas shrugged. “It’s only my shield arm. I’ll get used to it. Come on, let’s eat. Robin says he’ll come by later. The King wants his advice on the succession.”

“They haven’t even buried her! It’s outrageous.”

“Guy wants to keep the crown.”

“He said so?”

“He did, in front of the whole council. He said that Sybilla had crowned him herself when they married and therefore he wants to remain King until his death.” Thomas leaned back against the wall. “I’m glad I’m not Robin.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The King doesn’t want my advice. The advantage of being a Templar is that I can care less about who is King in which country.”

“But what when you return to England?”

“Maybe I won’t.” Thomas looked at Much thoughtfully. “I like it here. It never rains. It’s always warm – there’s not much in England I could return to. We could stay here, make some of the land our own and live in prosperity and peace.”

“My master wants to return home.”

Thomas’ smile fell slightly at Much’s words. “Of course you do.”

“It is beautiful,” Much stressed. “Nottingham, I mean. It’s very peaceful there as well and our sheriff is a good man. It barely ever rains either.”

“Sounds good. Does your family live there?”

“Yes, I mean, no, they did but they died eight years ago. My father was the local miller.”

“Why didn’t you take over after him?”

“It was the plague. They had to burn down the mill and I was too young to... Master Robin took me in, made me his manservant. I knew him since we were kids, it was very kind of him.” Much smiled at the memory of Robin, barely more than a boy, coming to him and declaring that he had a place in his household. Robin had always been so confident and he always had a plan, those two things Much could depend upon in his master.

“You seem to like him very much,” Thomas said but there was something in his voice that Much couldn’t identify.

“Everyone likes Robin.” Much declared but then added. “Well, everyone but the Saracens I guess.”

Thomas laughed. “I don’t think they like any of us.”

Much thought about Harun and Tahir, about his sister who had thought Much’s hair colour would come off, about Hamid who had made his shield... he had been sure that they had liked him, he knew that he had liked them but he didn’t say anything to Thomas. It was enough that Robin knew.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

The first day back in King Richard’s part of the camp was… well, it was sandy because Adhémar and Jocelin tackled him as soon as they saw him, and from the looks of it they had been waiting for him.

“I knew you would come back, you English weed.” Adhémar grinned and ruffled Much’s hair.

“We’re simply that indestructible,” Much replied. “Aren’t we?” he asked Jocelin.

“It would make no sense to say no when your return proved your own argument.” Jocelin replied but he sounded happy and grinned just as widely as Much and Adhémar.

“Eh! What’s up here?” LeGrand boomed over them. Quickly the three of them scrambled up to their feet.

“Sorry, master.” Adhémar said but he didn’t sound like he meant it at all. For a moment, LeGrand looked from on to the other until he suddenly pulled Much into a bear hug.

“It’s good that Robin has you back,” he said and let go.

“Thanks.” Much said confused. He didn’t think that LeGrand had ever taken notice of him before.

“Take good care of him,” LeGrand patted him on the back before he left again.

“That was an odd show of camaraderie for you master,” Jocelin commented with raised eyebrows.

“Just shows how much he values Robin,” Adhémar smirked.

“Don’t we all?” Jocelin asked.

“You should rather value your own master, shouldn’t you?” Adhémar teased.

“Valuing and serving are two very distinctive things,” Jocelin lectured him. Adhémar threw an arm over Much’s shoulder. “Let’s go and find a nice place where you can tell us everything.”

“You, too,” Much added and turned to Jocelin. “How was Haifa?”

“I am definitely not made for ships. My master may be fond of them, but if I never have to set foot on another ship until my death, it will still be too soon.”

“It’s winter. It’s highly unlikely that you will on another ship until April,” Much pointed out.

“And thank God for that,” Jocelin stressed with exaggerated relief.


	6. A Sickness So Pure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Tyre the nobels of the Crusade celebrate the wedding of the new Queen and King of Jerusalem while Much grows closer to Thomas

But no ships also meant no supplies and no supplies meant rations and starvation and scurvy. Much discovered that Robin had neglected to stock their own personal supplies over the summer and now it was too late for him to do anything about it, except for the short trip they took at the end of November to Tyre.

The council of Nobles finally wanted to settle the matter of succession between Guy de Lusignan and Isabella. Of course, as Robin pointed out, they had chosen the most foolish way of doing this by forcing Isabella to leave her husband Humphrey of Toron, who was a staunch supporter of King Guy, and marry her to King Guy’s old rival Conrad de Montferrat.

As Robin was not only the Captain of King Richard’s Guard but also his vassal, he had to attend many meetings and conventions that were closed for Much and therefore he had a lot of free time on his hand. They had only stayed in Tyre very shortly after their arrival from Cyprus, before the march towards Acre had begun, and Much remembered the city fondly.

“One could think you wanted to stay here from the look on your face,” Thomas said and brushed against Much while they were walking over the bazaar.

“It reminds me of market day in Nottingham, I can’t help it.” Much replied happily. “One could come to think that there is no war.”

“True, it could probably be like market day in Nottingham, if you ignore that no one here speaks English and every second merchant is a Saracen,” Thomas replied with a dry smile. “Hey! Look! Travellers!” He took Much’s hand and pulled him into the crowd to get a better look.

“Do you get these in Nottingham as well?” he asked, gesturing to the acrobats and fire-breathers and ropedancers.

“Sometimes, when they pass us on travels to or from York.”

Much and Thomas both laughed when they fire-breather tried to roast the ropedancer and the ropedancer evaded his flames with increasingly risky feats. Much felt Thomas’ eyes on him and turned his head to catch Thomas smiling and smiled back. He liked it when Thomas smiled at him; it released something warm inside his chest.

They wandered aimlessly through the city while the sun was sinking over horizon and finally vanished into the ocean.

“He, you!” A brutish looking man stepped out of a shadowy alley, followed by another ten men or so. Maybe there were more waiting in the background.

“We’re knights in the service of King Richard. Let us through,” Thomas demanded. The man spat at his feet. “I give a piss on what you are. Give us your gold and we may let you live, you son of a cur.”

Much had unsheathed his sword and held it at the man’s throat before he even knew what he was doing.

“You don’t speak to him like that.” His voice was shaking with anger. Out of the corners of his eyes he could see that the other men pulled out daggers and other weapons hidden beneath their cloaks.

“Much, what is your plan?” Thomas whispered urgently next to him.

“How about this?” Much kneed the man in front of him in the guts so that he collapsed. “Run!”

And they did. Crossing one alley, entering the next on the left and the next on the right side after that. Behind them they could hear the extremely furious insults their pursuers shouted at them. Without looking where he was going, Much nearly stumbled over his own feet. When Thomas pulled him into another alley and pressed him flat against the wall, Much’s protests swallowed by his hand over Much’s mouth.

Their pursuers came nearer and nearer and Much was sure that they would discover them at any moment, but then they simply ran by. Thomas waited for another moment until he took his hand from Much’s mouth and both of them let out a relieved sigh.

“What possessed you to do that?” Thomas grinned.

“I just... felt like it,” Much answered with mocked indifference.

“You felt like it,” Thomas teased. “I’ll remember not be near you when you feel like getting killed again.”

“We didn’t get killed,” Much protested immediately. They were still pressed against each other and the wall.

“No, thanks to you.” Thomas tilted his face just slightly nearer to Much’s.

“Do you think really think that?” Much responded teasingly to Thomas’ banter.

“Yes, I do.” When Much breathed in he could feel Thomas’ eyelashes flutter against his cheek.

“Well then, I will just step aside and let them rob you next time.” Thomas only hesitated for the fraction of a heartbeat, then he closed the distance between them and kissed Much.

It was a simple kiss, short enough to make sure that it was not seen as deliberate and only the press of Thomas’ dry lips against Much’s, nothing else.

“I... that was... ” Much didn’t know what to say. Thomas stepped away.

“Sorry... I didn’t know... what came over me.” He steadily avoided looking at Much. “Let’s go back to the castle, shall we?” But Much stopped him with a hand on his surcoat and pulled him towards him again.

This time the kiss was different. It was a long and desperate kiss. The kiss of two people who knew that they might never have the chance again and that, as soon as it ended, the guilt began. The questions began. The pain began.

They pulled apart breathlessly.

“We really shouldn’t do this,” Thomas said but there was the hint of a careless smile in his face.

“No,” Much agreed but his fingers were still tangled in the cloth of Thomas’ surcoat, wanting to pull him close again.

“At least,” Thomas amended and one of his bright smiles that Much liked so much broke out on his face. “We shouldn’t do it here, in public.”

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

Much came back very late to the room he shared with Robin, who was laying on his bed and read a small book. When Much came in, he put it aside.

“Did you have fun with Thomas?” he asked. Much stopped dead in his tracks.

“Uhm, yes. H-how do you... know... master?”

“He told me that he wanted to drag you to city.”

“Oh yes, we did that. There were fire-breathers and ropedancers and everything,” Much launched into a detailed description of the fire-breather and the ropedancer while he laid out and brushed up Robin’s finest clothes for the wedding the next day. Robin laughed when Much tried to show him a few of the more daring stunts the ropedancer had pulled to avoid the fire.

“Sounds like I missed a lot,” Robin said wistfully.

“How did it go with the King?” Much asked to change the subject. He didn’t want to say something that he would regret later.

“He’s unhappy.”

“King Richard?”

“Yes, Guy is his vassal, but Philip is his closest ally. And Conrad is Philip’s vassal.”

“That sounds unfortunate, master,” Much said carefully.

“It is. Oh and on top of that,” Robin rolled his eyes. “Duke Leopold thinks that just because he assembled the ruins of the Emperor’s army, he’s allowed to put his oar in for everything.” Robin sounded deeply annoyed, but Much knew him better than everyone else and could guess why Robin was really upset.

“It’s the wedding, isn’t it, master? It makes you think of Marian.”

“How do you know?”

“You say her name when you sleep.”

Robin looked crestfallen. “It doesn’t matter. She’s probably already married.”

“Maybe she’s waiting for you,” Much tried to encourage him.

“She’s the sheriff’s daughter. Even if she isn’t married yet, she will be when we return.”

“There are other girls,” Much tried again. “Maybe the King will give you his sister.” Robin laughed.

“I think the King’s plans for his sister reach beyond marrying her to a vassal that doesn’t need any encouragement to stay loyal to him.” Robin rose from the bed and the book he had been reading fell to the floor. Much picked it up.

“What is it, master?”

“It’s the Qur’an. Do you remember ambassador Jubayr? He gave it to me as a goodbye gift. He said he thought I would find it interesting.”

“And did you? Find it interesting I mean.”

“Some of it, yes.” Robin opened the book at a precise page and showed a long row of letters to Much who couldn’t read them.

“Every man lives for one deed; let yours be the doing of good works,“ Robin read out loud.

“That doesn’t sound too bad, does it?”

“No, Much, it doesn’t.” Robin agreed. He settled back on the bed. “I’m having doubts, Much.”

“About the Saracens?”

“About the war. Maybe we shouldn’t have come here.”

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

The next morning, Isabella, Queen of Jerusalem, was married to Conrad de Montferrat. She looked unhappy when she wasn’t sending dark looks in the direction of her earlier husband, who was attending the wedding as well.

“Well, I would be unhappy if I had to marry a grizzly, old man like that.” Adhémar said when he sat with Much and Jocelin in the Castle’s court and played dice with them while their masters and the other nobles feasted with the newlyweds. Conrad, due to a wound he had suffered from a skirmish with the Saracens nine days ago, would stay in Tyre with his bride and rejoin the siege after his recovery.

“Especially if my rightful husband was too much of a woman to stand up for me.”

“Conrad de Montferrat is a very well-educated and handsome man,” Jocelin argued. “He has a reputation of great courage and vitality.”

“Does Philip pay you to sing his vassal’s praise?” Adhémar snarked. “What do you think, Much? You’ve seen him in the battle of Acre, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I... he is a courageous man,” Jocelin raised his eyebrows at Adhémar as if to say See, I told you so but Much wasn’t finished; “But I think it’s wrong, how she’s been treated. And against the church. If he was an honourable man, Conrad would have prevented the marriage himself. I think he wanted to get one over Guy de Lusignan.”

“Probably King Philip as well,” Adhémar added. “He’s Conrad’s seigneur. What?” he asked when he caught Jocelin’s look.

“I thought you believed our King and King Philip to be sodomites?”

“Lover’s spat, happens to the best of us.”

“Like that girl in Sicily?” Much teased him.

“Come one, “Adhémar protested. “That wasn’t my fault!”

“And the girl in Cyprus wasn’t your fault either I suppose?” Jocelin winked at much.

“No! Maybe! Possibly... Oh hell if I know. It’s certainly not my fault that every good girl is married.”

“I dread to think about all those poor women in Aquitaine... .” Much began but the night ended with Adhémar’s more or less successful attempt to tackle both Much and Jocelin at the same time. At least it ended there for Jocelin and Adhémar, who were both called to assist their drunken masters. Much snuck out again after he had taken care of Robin and met Thomas in the far side of the castle garden.

Much sang quietly to himself while he was waiting for Thomas to show up.

“You know, Robin is right; you are an awful singer,” Thomas teased him from the shadows just when Much began to wonder where he was. This part of the garden was so dark that they wouldn’t be seen unless someone walked directly into them.

Much crossed his arms over his chest and pretended to be mad. At least until Thomas nudged him in the ribs and said: “Come on, I’m just teasing you.”

“So you do like my singing?”

“No, but I like you,” Thomas grinned.

“How was the feast?” Much asked to prevent further teasing.

“Loud, and the bride looked like she was going to murder her ex-husband at the first opportunity. She’ll come around. Conrad is a good man, not unlike Guy de Lusignan, but a bit more pragmatic and clever.”

“You don’t like de Lusignan?”

“I think he was a bit too in love with his family. Can’t be good for a king.”

“I met her once.”

“Whom?”

“Alix, Guy de Lusignan's eldest daughter. I met her on the day she died.”

“What is this about, Much?” Thomas asked curiously.

“My master thinks that maybe we’re in the wrong place here.”

“Of course he does,” Thomas replied bitterly. “He’s already a war hero, King’s Richard’s confidante and most loyal vassal. No matter what he does, his reputation stands.”

“It’s not only that.” Much stopped Thomas’ complaint about Robin. “There’s already not enough food and after the plague this summer... Saladin can just overrun us in a month or so and we’ll be too weak to fight back.”

“He thought that last winter as well,” Thomas gripped Much’s shoulders fiercely. “And look where he is now and where we are! We can do this Much. I know we can!”

“If we’re overrun,” Much continued as if Thomas hadn’t said anything, his voice close to breaking. “And if Master Robin is dead, I want you to kill me before they can capture me.”

“Much, there is only one promise I can give you. We will survive this winter. We will take Acre. And then Jerusalem. And when we return home, I will go with you so you can show me Nottingham and I can show you Oxfordshire.”

Much nodded slowly. “Fine. I’m sorry for crying.”

“You didn’t cry. You were laughing on the wrong side of your face,” Thomas corrected him gently.  
“What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know. I picked it up when I was a kid and I like the sound of it, that’s all.” Thomas smiled softly and ran a hand through Much’s hair, resting it against Much’s neck to kiss him.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

They nearly didn’t make it back to the camp. Saladin had once more reinforced his army to finally reach his goal: defeat the Crusader’s army before the Mediterranean would be passable again. King Philip’s hated but most important vassal Philip de Alsace fell while trying to force his way through Saladin’s siege around the camp. Philip’s only reaction was:

“By God, he gets himself killed now and without an heir, while I’m stuck here and can’t return to France to settle this issue. I swear to you Richard, the son of a fox and a snake only did this to spite me.”

Much and Thomas, who used Much’s hideout in the hills when they wanted to be alone (a place that was also popular with Richard and Philip), barely avoided being found out while sniggering after Philip’s dramatic complaint.

When Much walked back later that night he passed the graveyard just outside the hospital buildings. Most of their dead were buried in mass graves, especially during the plague in summer, but the many nobles that lay here among the soldiers had received distinctive graves with crosses over them and their names engraved.

Much recognised the colours of the man’s surcoat even in darkness. It was Guy de Lusignan. He lay stretched over his wife’s and his daughters’ graves and in the quiet from the wake of the hills, Much could hear him crying. Thinking that this proud man didn’t want anyone to witness his sorrow, Much turned away as quickly as he could.


	7. So Burn the Untamed Lands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Siege ends with a victory and in blood.

“They’re mocking us.” Much complained and rightfully so. It was Christmas Eve and the wind coming from the east carried with it the smell of roasted beef and chicken through the camp.

“Well maybe we should mock them, then.” Robin suggested, a smirk stealing itself on his face.

“How?” Robin’s smirk widened into a grin. “What do you think?”

Much opened his mouth, hesitated when he realised the full impact of Robin’s words and finally settled on: “No.”

“Yes.” Robin looked positively gleeful about his idea.

“That’s suicide!”

“Come one, Much, a nice beefsteak for Christmas? Maybe some chicken?

“Stop it, Robin, that’s not fair,” Much complained.

Robin tilted his head and got up. Much huffed but he followed him.

“You know there is a story about two Greek heroes who sneak into the enemy’s camp and steal all their horses,” Robin told Much while they were crawling up a hill.

“Do they survive?”

“Yes.”

“Both of them?”

“Yes!” Robin gave Much an annoyed look, who merely shrugged. “You did tell me that awful story about the Spartans and the Persians before.”

Robin rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me.”

He shot two soldiers, guarding a tent at the side of the Saracen camp that he and Much were ‘investigating’ and –

“Looks like God is our side tonight, doesn’t it?” Robin whispered to Much. They had managed to walk straight into one of the supply tents, which was right next to the tent of Saladin’s brother Saphadin, but Robin and Much didn’t know that.

“But master, how will we get all of that back to the camp?”

Robin looked around. There was not much there they could use except for...

“Much, do you remember that story I told you about the Greek soldiers?”

“Yes?” Much asked confused.

“They used horses.” Robin tilted his head into the direction of a conveniently near preserve of horses.

“You’re brilliant!”

“Sh!”

“Sorry,” Much grinned. “But you are brilliant, you know that, right?”

“I know,” Robin smirked smugly. “Let’s go.”

Like shadows they flitted between the tent and the preserves, fastening bags full of food and other useful things onto the horses. The animals were surprisingly quiet but then they were packhorses and probably used to this.

“Ahlan!” A man stepped out of the tent next to the supply tent, his eyes wide with shock when he saw them.

“Time to go.” Robin gave Much a signal and Much opened the gate and Robin drove the horses with loud noises down the hills.

“Asre'! Asre'!”

“Run!” It was not like it had been with Thomas in the clutter of alleys in Tyre. Here, he and Robin dodged arrows and dived for cover behind rocks and into the sand. When they finally reached King Richard’s camp, again both of them collapsed on the sand in laughter.

Not to mention that they were the heroes of the camp once again. Not only the supplies themselves but also the horses were a much welcomed additional food source. On top of that, one of the packages that Much had thrown into the bags with the rest, turned out to be some sort of correspondence.

“I know that you can speak Arabic, but can you read it as well?” Richard asked Robin when they examined his and Much’s plunder.

“No, I’m sorry Your Majesty.”

“King Conrad can read Arabic,” King Philip pointed out. A very unhappy expression flitted over Richard’s face at the mentioning of that name.

“Of course he can,” he grimaced when Philip wasn’t looking. “Robin, send someone for him.”

Robin nodded to Much and Much left the tent.

“You’re sure working on becoming a living legend,” Thomas greeted him outside. “And yet if you hear the men talk, it all seems to be Robin’s glory.”

“It was his idea,” Much defended him. “I only helped.” Thomas knew by now that there was no arguing about Robin with Much, so he let the topic drop.

“Where are you off to?”

“The King asked me to bring King Conrad to his tent.”

“Will I see you later?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow then,” Thomas smiled and took a different turn than Much through the tents.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

“This is the correspondence between Saphadin and the commander of Acre,” King Conrad said while he flipped through the letters. He had returned only a few weeks prior, while leaving his wife in Tyre. Probably to spare her the fate of her sister and to secure himself the throne.

“There’s everything in here: the strength of the garrison... the weaknesses of the walls... how much food they have left... literally everything we need to know.”

“So we know now how bad off they are. That is not going to help us,” Richard argued.

“On the contrary, we can build siege weapons and attack their walls at specific points. Once we’ve taken Acre, there’s nothing Saladin can do.” Conrad’s eyes wandered between Philip and Richard as if he was asking for both of their approval.

“It is a good plan,” Philip emphasised, looking pointedly at Richard, who visibly fought with himself for a moment before he agreed.

“Take what you need then, but for God’s sake try not to alarm Saladin of what we’re doing before we’re ready to attack.”

Behind Richard’s back Conrad gave him a look that reminded Much very much of Adhémar whenever he rolled his eyes at LeGrand.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

The siege weapons had some effect, but not the desired one. At least not completely. They did break through the walls but each time they attacked Acre with them, Saladin launched an attack against the Crusader’s themselves, giving the people of Acre time to repair the breached wall.  
Once Saladin’s army itself managed to breach the siege, and an entire garrison made its way into Acre while Saladin’s other forces had the Crusader’s army tied up. It was a disastrous day for the overall morale.

Disastrous for Much and Adhémar was that Jocelin vanished during one of these attacks. No one could tell if he had been taken prisoner or if his corpse was one of the many that fouled the water in the camp and continued to make everyone sick.

April saw both King Philip and King Richard in the sickbed, but unlike so many others, both recovered.

Slowly one month turned into another. The first ship arrived in March, claiming that the sea had never been so calm around this time of the year. which everyone saw as a sign from God.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

“Did you see that?” Thomas asked one night after their secret tryst. They were walking back to the more densely populated areas of the camp when Thomas suddenly stopped dead in his movements.

“Seen what?” Much asked and squinted into the darkness.

“I was sure I saw someone.”

“Well, there are lots of people around. You. Me. And... no one,” Much teased him.

“I meant someone dressed like a Saracen.”

“Impossible!”

“Why? You and Robin managed to do the very same thing, didn’t you?”

“Well... yes... but that’s different,” Much claimed.

“Really?” Thomas wasn’t impressed. “How – did you really not see that?”

“No... What?” Much asked confused.

“I think they’re on their way to the King’s tent,” Thomas replied darkly. It was very late and most soldiers, except for a handful of guards, were asleep.

“Maybe you need more sleep,” Much grinned. Thomas hung his head, running a hand through his short, blonde hair.

“You’re probably right,” he said sheepishly. They continued to walk.

“What did you think of the rations for today?”

“I think it was a lot, but what I really don’t want to think about is where it came from.”

“It was better than last week.”

“That’s because last week was cockroach stew, no matter what they’re trying to tell you it was – ;“

Thomas dived suddenly into the darkness between King Richard’s and Hugh of Poitou’s tents, drawing his dagger. Whoever he was struggling with had to be strong, because they crashed a part of King Richard’s tent which alarmed not only the King but everyone in the vicinity.

“Much, what happening here?” Robin asked when he found him in the crowd.

“I don’t know.” Much confessed. “Thomas thought he saw something and – ;“

“Torches!” The King demanded but only moments later Thomas emerged from the shadows with his dagger at the neck of a Saracen.

“I apprehended this man while he was trying to find access to your tent,” Thomas explained.

Someone pressed forward through the crowd and Conrad’s clear voice cut through the noise around him.

“I know who this man is.”

“What do you mean who he is?” Richard asked. “He’s a Saracen.”

“He’s not just a Saracen.” Conrad was unfazed by Richard’s hostile tone. “This man is a Hashshashin.”

A murmur went through the crowd. Every single soldier here had already heard of those, professional killers employed by Saladin to get rid of everyone he found annoying. Up and to including King Richard apparently.

“We should interrogate him and – ;“

“Kill him,” Richard ordered. Thomas didn’t even hesitate for a second before he cut deeply into the man’s throat and slit it open.

It made him more of a hero than anything else could have. He was the first among the soldiers that had actually killed one of the infamous Hashshashins.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

The straw that broke the camel’s back wasn’t the fresh arrival of supplies. What made the difference was an order of Knight’s Templars, coming from Toulouse, which meant that Thomas left King Richard’s Guard as soon as they had arrived.

It was the morning of the 11th July 1191 when they heard the cry.

“They’re holding the breach! They’re holding the breach!” brought every soldier who was able to stand to the arms. Much and Robin followed King Richard while Much tried to find Thomas in the crowd but without any success. Guy de Lusignan however, gave Much a short nod when he walked by.

“Who gave order to attack the wall at night?” Richard demanded to know.

“King Conrad,” Came the reply from the crowd. Richard gritted his teeth. “Of course, he did.”

“Who’s with him?” was his next loud question.

“The Knight’s Templars!” This time it was King Philip who answered.

“Is this your doing?” Richard demanded to know quietly.

“Conrad is my vassal, Richard.” Philip snarled. “Not my pet.”

“LeGrand,” Richard turned to him. “I want you to lead half of our troops against Saladin. Make sure that he’s occupied in order for us to take the city.”

“At once, Your Majesty.”

“And LeGrand?”

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Make sure that Leopold of Austria is occupied as well.”

“As you wish.”

“Here we go,” Adhémar smirked at Much and offered him his hand. “Tomorrow we’ll celebrate our victory in one of Acre’s taverns.”

“We will,” Much affirmed and shook Adhémar’s hand before Adhémar followed LeGrand and Much caught up to the King and Robin.

“ – care about those siege machines. Take two companies of archers and crossbowmen into the walls and shoot everyone in sight. I don’t care who it is.” King Richard said as they rode off.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

In retroperspective much of the details of the final battle of Acre became fuzzy. Much remembered that he had followed Robin, not letting him out of his sight. He remembered climbing over broken stones that had been the last barrier between Acre and the Crusaders when the people of Acre had realised that this time Saladin wouldn’t come for their help.

He also remembered that the cobblestones had been slippery from blood when Robin had shouted and pointed upwards were Much could see the banners of the Kingdom of Jerusalem and of France and of England.

Victory didn’t just taste sweet. It tasted like home.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

“A month ago Saladin promised to pay the ransom for these men.” King Philip’s voice filled the air over the crowded market place. He had assembled all 2 700 captured Saracen soldiers and surrounded them with his and Richard’s guard. Richard stood slightly behind Philip, but he was silent. Before the assembly however, he had sworn them all to follow King Philip’s orders today.

“He has failed to pay his debt. That shows that Saladin does not care for these men.” Much stood next to Robin under the platform the King spoke from. “As for the last six weeks of their captivity, these men have been offered the chance to avow themselves to our Almighty Lord and his incarnate son Jesus Christ. Hereby I offer them a last chance to take the path to redemption.”

Richard waited for a few moments but none of the prisoners spoke. Much doubted that most of them even understood what Richard was talking about.

“Very well,” King Philip looked down at Robin. “Guard! Draw you weapons.”

“But master,” Much began but Robin cut him off harshly while looking both deeply unhappy and apologetic. “It’s the King’s order, Much. Do it.”

Much drew his sword.

“Kill them,” King Philip finished his speech.

As soon as the prisoners understood what was happening to them, they tried to escape, tried to fight. 2 700 unarmed, malnourished men against a city filled with an army with the orders to kill every Saracen they saw inside the city walls.

As soon as the prisoners began to struggle, Much lost his hesitation. He acted on instincts, after all this was just another fight. He hacked and slashed mindlessly through the men. It was too easy to see his torturer in every single one of them. Their screams soon went from human fear to animally pain and he turned deaf to them like he had done so often before on the battlefield.

After an hour, most of the screams were silenced and Richard’s guard had literally ripped an entire garrison to bits and pieces.

“Master,” Much found Robin not far from him and like him, Robin was splattered with blood. On his way to him, Much slipped on something wet and soft and didn’t need to look to know that it was someone’s innards. “Master, are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, Much,” Something stirred at their feet. If Much didn’t know better he wouldn’t have called the man human. He had an eye left but the skull was broken open and leaked out onto the ground. His body was so cut up. It was a miracle that he was still alive.

Robin kneeled down, took his dagger from his belt and slit the man’s throat. He looked like he was going to through up.

“This is not why I left, home, Much,” Robin said, looking up. When he followed Robin’s vicious glare, he found King Philip, standing in the morning sun over Acre and smiling a wintry smile at King Richard.


	8. It’s not murder it’s an act of faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard’s sister Joanna arrives in Acre. Richard and Philip end their affair for once and for all and Richard asks Robin for his loyalty.

The news spread fast that the King’s sister would arrive in Acre soon. The rumours why she would come to Acre spread even faster. Nearly every noble’s name was mentioned as a potential new husband for Joanna, especially those who were already married. Isabella’s marriage to Conrad had once again proven to everyone how little the nobles cared about the holy matrimony.

King Richard appointed Robin to his sister’s personal guard, but as the issue about the crown of Jerusalem was still far from settled, this task fell de facto onto Much.

“Who are you?” Princess Joanna asked. It should have been Robin and Much guarding her but Robin was needed in another council meeting so Much had gone alone.

“I am Much, Mylady,” Much answered and looked down on his feet. She was the King’s sister after all.

“Are you from England?”

“Yes, Mylady.”

“Which part?” The question surprised Much so much that he looked up.

“Nottinghamshire, Mylady.”

“I’ve never been there,” Joanna said softly, almost wistfully. “I grew up in Winchester at my mother’s court.”

“My master is a good friend of the Earl of Winchester,” Much blurted without thinking. Joanna looked at him with her sage eyes. “Who is your master?”

“Robin of Locksley, Mylady.” A fleeting smile stole itself onto Joanna’s face.

“I know him. He’s the handsome, young man that captains my brother’s guard.”

“That he is, Mylady,” Much confirmed.

“Richard is very fond of him, isn’t he?” There was something else in her voice now beside curiosity.

“Yes, he listens to my master’s advice, Mylady,” Much said proudly.

“It has to be good advice, after all; Richard conquered Acre.”

Much flushed as if she had complimented him and said: “Thank you, Mylady.”

“Please,“ she gestured for him to come nearer. “Do you sing?”

“Yes, Mylady,” Much nodded enthusiastically.

“Do you know English songs as well?” She began to hum. It wasn’t a song Much recognised but her soft humming reminded him of the songs his mother had used to sing when they had sat around the fire in the evenings.

“I’m sorry I don’t know that one,” Much said once she had stopped. Disappointment flashed over her face for a moment but then she shrugged. “Well, sing.”

And despite what Robin and everyone else were saying, Joanna didn’t ask him to stop once.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

“Did you yet decide who Joanna should marry?“ King Philip poured wine into his goblet and watched King Richard.

“No, but I thought about it a few times.“

“Good! So have I. I could use a new wife; my son would have a mother... “

“Philip,“ said Richard in a warning tone.

“What? We both know you're not going to marry my sister, especially not now that you are married, but I could still marry yours. Joanna was always your favourite, wasn’t she? We could be brothers, and add incest to the ever-growing list of sins the Pope is already indulging us for.“

“I'd sooner marry her to Saladin.“

“Unfortunately he's already got one wife, but his brother, on the other hand, hasn’t...“

“I know. That’s one of the possibilities I had in mind.

“You’re joking.”

“It's worth considering.“

“I wasn't being serious.“

“I was.”

Philip held his hands up in a mockery of defeat.

“If you want to be the laughing stock of Europe, it would be far from me to stop you. After all, you managed just fine to make a fool of yourself in front of your father and – ;“

“Stop it,“ said Richard, more sharply than seemed appropriate. Philip fell silent, surprised by his vehemence.

“There's something I need to know,“ Richard said out of the blue.

“What?“

“What was Geoffrey doing in Paris when he died?“

“Why are you suddenly bringing up your dead brother?” Philip asked annoyed. “He’s been dead for eight years now. Let it rest.”

“What was he doing there?” Richard pressed on.

“It was a jousting tournament, I’ve told you before. He fell from his horse and... “

“You fox cub, why do you always have to lie?!“ Richard shouted suddenly.

“I'm not. This time, anyway,“ Philip said, peeved. “It's the truth.“

“Why was he in Paris?“

“He was my seneschal, you know that!” Philip seemed genuinely frustrated with Richard’s nit-picking questions. “What do you want me to say?“

“They say you were grief-stricken when he died, that you threw yourself on the coffin. So what the hell was going on between you two?“

Philip was silent, his eyes not meeting Richard's. “Who is 'they'?”

“My mother, if you must know. She told me before she left Cyprus.“

“And you actually believed her? Have you been brooding over this for the last two years? Did you ever once consider the possibility that she was trying to play jealousy against me?

“Why would she do that?”

“Are you serious? She despises me. I can't pretend to understand how that twisted snake's nest she calls her mind works, but you should know her well enough to take anything she says with a grain of salt.“

“What was there between you and my brother?“ Richard asked again, this time directly to Philip’s face. Philip sat up straight, holding his ground before the onslaught of Richard's temper.

“We talked. He wanted me to join him in an attack on Normandy, but... “

“I don't give a damn about Normandy!“ Richard shouted. That made Philip raise his eyebrows

“You shouldn’t. You gave it to me, remember? Or was that Geoffrey? Or maybe your father? Or little Johnny? I can’t remember. There are too many men in your family.“

The blow across Philip’s face came out of nowhere. He couldn’t have defended himself if he had wanted to.

“You whore,“ snarled Richard.

Philip took at step back, ready to react should Richard try to attack him again.

“I'm not going to ask what the fuck that was,“ he said coldly. “You will never strike me again.“ They stared at each other for a few moments until Philip’s anger broke out of him.

“And damn it, you weren't even speaking to me! We were practically at war.“

“So you went to Geoffrey? Or did he come to you first?“

“You don't want to know, do you?“ There was only silence.

“Your jealousy makes me sick, Richard. There have been and always will be other men and women in my life. I’m not yours.”

“They are not my brother, though!” Richard shouted. He took a deep breath, his voice still shaking with fury.

“What happened between you and Geoffrey?

“I invited him. We did talk about Normandy and Henry, and, later, after rather a lot of wine, about you. He said that you were a fool for fighting with me, and I could see in his eyes that he didn't just mean over territory. And that was it.“

“Stop. Lying.” Richard gritted out between his teeth.

“You’re so sure that you know the answer, what do you need me for?”

“Did you love him?”

“I came to love him, Richard, I couldn't help myself. He made me love him. I thought you were gone for good, and how was I supposed to guess you would come back? But it was never like that. I valued his friendship, his intelligence. I didn’t replace you with him.”

“I don’t believe you.” Richard jerked away when Philip tried to reach for him.

“He's been dead and buried for eight years. Let it stay there. Let the dead rest.“

“I can't,” Richard refused to look at Philip. ”I can't.“ Philip looked at him and a sudden coldness stole itself on his face.

“Then let's end this, once and for all.“ Philip’s voice was as cold and clear as a frozen lake.

“Damn it, don't you think I would if I could?“ Richard yelled and pounded his fist onto the wooden table between them.

“It's not working, Philip. I can't think of anyone but you. Whatever I do it’s about you,” Richard sank down on his knees, defeated.

“I remember a time when that wasn’t a bad thing,” Philip said quietly. He moved around the table and placed a hand on Richard's slumped shoulder.

“If you can't walk away, I'll do it for you. As soon as the Council elects Conrad as the new King of Jerusalem, I’ll leave. I need to go back to France and sort out Philip de Alsace’s succession anyway.”  
“Why are you so insistent on Conrad?”

“Why not?” Philip shrugged. “I like him. His Kingship over Jerusalem is the price I want for leaving the most of my troops with you. You can wage holy war to your heart's content. Maybe you can keep a promise for once.“

“It always would have ended like this, wouldn’t’ it?” Richard gave a short, bitter sob of a laugh.

“It didn’t end in execution and public humiliation.” Philip leaned down and kissed Richard softly.

“We’re at war and we are Kings. We don’t have time for trivial things like romance.” He helped Richard up.

“I feel like I should thank you.”

“You can thank me when you come home. Now go. I should get some rest, and you have a long way to go to fulfil your promise.”

Richard nodded and walked away quickly enough that he only heard a single whimper from Philip's room, and he could almost pretend it was nothing more than the wind blowing through the sleeping Acre.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

“Forget it, Richard!” Much could hear Joanna’s voice through the whole court. “He’s a heathen! A devil! I agreed to come here to be married but I will rather join a convent than let you marry me to that demon!”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, woman!” Richard yelled.

“I will take the Holy Vows in front of all your lords and barons.”

“I want you to at least consider it. I would strengthen the peace. You could convert him.”

“Why can’t you marry me to someone else? de Lusignan maybe or even Phillip?”

“Phillip has no desire for a new wife,” Richard told her sternly.

“Of course.” Her tone reminded Much of Adhémar at his most sarcastic and exasperated. “Because you are here to warm his bed at night. You would make a better queen to Phillip than any woman I ever knew or heard of. Just do it and let John inherit the throne like father wanted.” Her voice grew more and more acidic with each word.

Slap. Much winced involuntarily when he heard the King hitting his sister. Only moments Richard stormed out of the room, not even noticing Much. Joanna, however, did.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s Much, Mylady,” Much said carefully politely.

“Oh, come in.”

He did as he was asked. Joanna sat on her bed, her face flushed and her whole appearance slightly in disarray.

“I’ll hazard a guess and say that it wasn’t my brother who sent you.”

“No, Mylady. King Philip asks for your company during dinner tonight.”

“Oh well, why not.” Joanna ran a hand through her hair in an attempt to straighten it. “Tell him I’ll come and see him.”

“As you wish, Mylady.”

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

“You wanted to see me Your Majesty?” Robin asked after he had knocked against the doorframe of the King’s chamber.

“Yes, come in Robin, take a seat – ;“ Richard gestured to the chair in front of him.

“Robin, you know that King Philip is pushing the Council of Nobles for a vote against Guy de Lusignan in favour of Conrad de Montferrat.”

“Yes.” Robin waited patiently until Richard continued:

“And you know that I always supported de Lusignan in this struggle.”

Robin nodded again.

“Do you trust me Robin? Do you trust me to know what’s best for England and to restore Jerusalem into Christian hands?”

“You know that I do, Your Majesty,” Robin replied firmly.

“Then you must swear that you will never reveal this to anyone, or it could easily provoke a war between England and France.”

“I swear on my life and my loyalty to you.”

“Conrad de Montferrat can never be King of Jerusalem.”

“You mean the nobles have to vote against him?”

“No, I mean that he has to die.”

“Do you want me to kill him?” Robin asked with a hint of disbelief in his voice.

“Robin, you have to understand that Conrad’s brother is funding John’s rebellion against me on Conrad’s and Phillips account. But no, I don’t want to kill him. Do you know the Knights Templar called Thomas that served in my Guard for a while?”

“Of course.” Robin didn’t see where this was leading.

“I want you to get him killed, by all means. He is the price the Hashshashin want for Conrad’s death.”

“Your Majesty...” Robin hesitated but he held steady under Richard’s scrutiny until he reached a decision. “For England.”

“For England.”


	9. When the road runs out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joanna leaves before Richard can marry her to Saladin’s brother, Robin leads the charge into a village and the King of Jerusalem is elected

“Are you not going to follow Robin into the charge tonight?” Thomas asked. He was already dressed in chainmail and his surcoat.

“No, King Richard wants me to look after his sister tonight.”

“She’s a good match,” Thomas winked at him.

“Very funny.” Much carefully leaned Robin’s quiver against the table. “I hope we’re going to go home, soon. I mean, we did it, didn’t we? We took Acre.”

“No reason to stop. There’s going to be another battle,” Thomas grinned. “And another one after that and so on until we take back Jerusalem from the Saracens.”

“Don’t you ever think about going home?” Much asked. He missed home, missed Nottingham and Locksley, missed it more and more with every day he spent here, where it seemed that he waded through knee-deep blood all the time.

“I have next to nothing back there. Here, I am a knight, a hero, ‘Doom of the Grandmaster of the Hashshashin’.” His eyes softened slightly. “You are here.”

Much looked away. He didn’t like it when Thomas mentioned that. It was wrong, he knew that and Thomas knew that and only because they both chose not to acknowledge it didn’t mean that they wouldn’t be punished for it. Much didn’t want to go to hell, but he also didn’t know how he could ask forgiveness for what he and Thomas had done.

“I told you before, I have not much to go back to. Who knows, maybe I could even become Grandmaster.”

“You promised,” Much reminded him.

“I know and I intend to keep my promise.” Thomas looked around to make sure that no one was around and stole a kiss from Much.

“Here.” He pressed something into Much’s hand. “See it as a token.”

Much looked at his hand. Thomas had given him a long chain of wooden beads; one of the prayer chains the Saracen’s used.

“Where did you get that?”

“Took it from the corpse of an old man. He was the bailiff of a village south of here. He had a nice pair of daughters, but his son escaped and sold his sisters free.”

Much didn’t dare to ask for their names even though it was unlikely that Thomas would have known them. Instead he wound the chain around his wrist.

Thomas picked up his shield.

“I’ll be back for this,” he said on his way out, gesturing at his wrist.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

“You are leaving, Mylady?” Much asked when he came to Joanna’s quarters and found her and her handmaiden packing.

“Yes, “she replied determined. “I’m leaving with Philip in two days. Richard can marry me to whoever he wants as long as it is not another of those heathens.”

“I’m sure he never meant – ;“ but Joanna didn’t listen to him.

“I know him. The longer I stay here the more he’s going to like the idea until he goes through with it. If God is merciful, He will kill my brother and let me marry Philip,” she ranted. “The latter would actually be enough.” She threw her arms in the air. “But no, of course not. Why do the sensible thing? It’s amazing what sheer jealousy will have men do,” she huffed.

“I’m sorry, why did my brother send you?” she added.

“He said you would need some company tonight.”

“Really?” She looked amazed. “That’s new. On the other hand, he’s probably afraid that I will elope with someone.” She tilted her head at him. “Is your master still free?”

“He’s engaged.”

“Shame. What about you?” She laughed at Much’s confused face. “Sorry, I can’t seem to think straight tonight. Could you sing? That would probably calm me down.”

“Of course, Mylady.”

Shouting from the court let awoke them both in the early morning. As per Joanna’s request Much had stayed the whole night, singing whenever she had woken up until she fell asleep again.

“That’s my master,” Much said delighted. He looked at Joanna.

“Go,” she said with a smile.

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

Richard was with them as well when Robin returned. He only came back with half of his men and most of them were carrying their fallen comrades on stretchers between them, Thomas corpse ahead of them.

“Robin...” Richard sounded like he needed to find control over his own voice while Much couldn’t believe his own eyes. “What happened?”

“I... there was...” Robin took a deep breath, for the first time he seemed to struggle with words. The other soldiers behind him exchanged glances; some of them bordering on hateful but no one said a word.

“It’s a long story, Your Majesty,” Robin said wearily.

“Of course, most battle stories are,” Richard forced a smile. “But I’m afraid we won’t have time for this. Philip called in the Council of Nobles to settle the succession issue today and he’s eager to leave. I need you to come with me, Robin. We can exchange battle stories later.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. Just one moment, please.” Richard looked from Robin to Thomas’ body and Much and nodded. “Of course.”

“Much, I’m sorry about Thomas,” Robin began but Much blinked away any possibly forming tears and gave him his bright, fake smile again.

“At least you made it back, Master. We’ve seen these things happen before.”

“Yes, we have,” Robin said quietly while looking at Much with sad, concerned eyes. He laid a hand on Much’s shoulder and pulled him into an embrace.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered again. Much stayed in Robin’s embrace for as long as he could stand it before he withdrew. “You need to go, master. The King waits for you,” Much reminded him.

“I’m so sorry, Much. It shouldn’t have happened like this.”

“Go, master!” Much pushed him lightly away. “I will take care of this.”

“Sir,” one of the soldiers approached Much. “Lord Locksley said that we should prepare the body to bring him home.”

“Of course,” Much felt strangely hollow and unattached; “Do as he said.”

He wandered down to the shore, staring at the horizon where the sun was sinking. He knew that England, home, vaguely lay in that direction and suddenly he was so overcome with homesickness that he begun to shake. But there were no tears.

“I thought he would be the next Grandmaster!” Much was surprised to see Guy de Lusignan standing behind him.

“Shouldn’t you be in the castle, Mylord?” Much asked but de Lusignan shook his head. “I already know how they will decide. I also know what I’m going to get as recompense. Were you ever on Cyprus?” he asked but answered his own question. “Of course you were, Richard conquered the bloody island.”

“They have very good food there,” Much offered and got a small smile from de Lusignan for his effort. He kicked a few pebbles into the sea.

“How can you know what they will decide when they haven’t done it yet?” Much asked after a while.

“Because Sybilla married me twice against the wishes of every other noble in this country, including her family,” de Lusignan stepped nearer. “It is fine to cry for a friend, especially one who died for something so petty.”

“What do you mean?” Much asked. de Lusignan gave him a side glance but answered. “Nothing.”

“I’m not crying,” Much said eventually. “I’m laughing on the wrong side of my face.”

 

///////////////////////////////////////

 

In that night Much was woken up not by nightmares but by the noise of a skirmish and Robin’s frantic. “Much! Much!”

It was the April of 1192 and Conrad de Montferrat, the newly elected King of Jerusalem, would die in two days by the hands of two Hashshashins.

Much and Robin would return to England five months after Isabella’s third marriage to Richard’s nephew Henry of Champagne and later King of Jerusalem, while King Richard continued his quest to re-establish the Kingdom of Jerusalem with its name giving capital.


End file.
